


A Dark Revival

by Kkismoi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Fanfiction, Fantasy, Magic, Original Character(s), Violence, Witches, Wizards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:20:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29201238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kkismoi/pseuds/Kkismoi
Summary: The return to Hogwarts a year after the final battle against the Dark Lord and his followers is fraught with threats of a secret weapon that will fulfill the Dark Lord's notions of a pureblood society. Penelope Montgomery finds herself caught in the midst of another battle as a violent and cruel crusade is taken up by students seeking revenge against those believed to have sided with the Dark Lord and the source of their grief.As control is slowly lost, Penelope finds some of her very own secrets she's worked hard to keep hidden are threatened to be unleashed to the public. With the looming risk of Azkaban and execution hanging over her, Penelope is left with no choice but to delve into her dark past and take matters into her own hands.**Inspired by J.K Rowling's Harry Potter series****Continuation of J.K Rowling's Harry Potter Series**
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Kudos: 1





	1. Reopening

Darkness descends upon the train—thick, cloying, and impenetrable. Excited chatter is snuffed out like a candle's flame as everyone waits with bated breath. Somewhere further down the train, someone cries out in shock before they're quickly cut off. Other than the wheels clacking ominously over the tracks, it's completely silent.

The atmosphere is claustrophobic with nervous anticipation. None of us can see a damn thing. All we can do is listen for signs of danger, for the moment when we might have to defend ourselves—when an innocent train ride turns to a fight for survival. Although a year has passed, our minds have returned to the war. No longer kids or soldiers but something else.

It explains why no one's switched on a light. Why we're all cowering in the darkness. Too afraid to see what we don't want to see even though we know it can't be there. It _can't_. The war is over. We're safe. But no matter how many times I chant those words in my mind, I don't believe them. How many times have I found myself in this situation? How many times have we all been caught off guard and left to fight off the darkness unprepared?

My hands tremble in my lap as I plead for someone brave enough to cast a light, to chase out the darkness, to see what's cloaking itself in those shadows. Death Eaters? Dementors? The Dark Lord himself? No, I tell myself, the Dark Lord is dead and so are most of his followers. The war is over. We're safe. We have to be. The alternative is almost too much to bear.

My fingers ghost across my wand. The little whorls and knots of wood offer a small comfort of familiarity against the darkness. _Lumos_ , I chant. _Lumos!_ I can't pry my jaw apart to say the words. What if the thing I fear most is creeping down the hallway or standing right outside the door?

_Lumos._

All I have to do is cast the charm and I'll see what my mind already knows: nothing is there. There are no enemies to be had when they're dead, imprisoned, or fearing prosecution.

 _"Please."_ I startle, straining to hear where the whisper is coming from. _"Please, please don't hurt us."_ The voice belongs to a woman, full of desperation and fear as she begs for mercy. My stomach turns violently at the familiarity of her voice. Familiar enough to know it's not coming from anywhere on this train.

 _"Look at these weak, sniveling excuses for wizards. The way they cower before us rather than fight. Our reason for snuffing out any impurities. Why don't you do the honors, Penelope? Show us the darkness that moves through your veins as pure as any of ours. Prove to me you have what it takes to fulfill the Dark Lord's wishes. Use. The. Spell!"_ The Dark Lord’s voice is a quiet whisper of sound that reverberates through my ears like static. Though I know he's dead and there's no way I can hear him, I'm filled with dread.

"No," I murmur, "no, no, no."

Moments later, the darkness flees from the train as it emerges out of the tunnel. Light blasts through the compartments like it never left. Its warmth doesn't erase the chill in my body. Hushed sobs float down the aisle, the only sound we hear until conversation nervously starts up again. My hands shake as I brush loose chocolate brown curls out of my face. It's only when I take a deep breath to relieve myself of tension that I realize I haven't breathed the entire time.

"Are you alright, Poppy?" Elenora wonders. She leans forward in her seat, concern making the blues of her eyes shine as she studies me. Light from the window next to her lights up one half of her face in a golden glow, highlighting the sickly sheen of sweat on her face and the slight trembling of her mouth. Everyone else on the train must be suffering similar effects. "Did you see something?"

Knowing she's asking if I saw something in the dark, something that shouldn't be there, I shake my head. No ghosts, no death eaters, nothing that can harm anyone. Just voices. Always those damn voices pounding on the insides of my skull with their relentless pleading.

The door to our compartment slides open with a bang, startling us. Our friends Damian and Ezra barge inside with treats overflowing in their cradled arms. Some drop to the floor and bounce before rolling under our seats. With all this nervous energy, I don't know how they can think about eating. Just the sight of it makes me want to vomit even though I haven't eaten since last night's dinner, and even then I could hardly force food down my throat.

Ezra drops his candy on the bench between him and Elenora, who wrinkles her nose in disgust at the sight of all the sickly sweet treats. Thin as a toothpick, it's hard to imagine he can eat so much, but Ezra has an unending appetite much like Damian. He takes a seat across from me, next to the doors, but doesn't touch his stash of food. It occurs to me they were most likely on their way back to our compartment when the train disappeared under the tunnel. No doubt they suffered the same unending torment the rest of us did but were too prideful to return their food.

I don't blame them. Sometimes, keeping up appearances is better than giving in to one's fear and letting it spread like wildfire.

My attention is drawn from him when a few candies slide across the bench and bounce off my leg before tumbling to the floor. I shove them away from me and towards Damian who stole the spot next to the windows where bright sunlight illuminates the blue skies and rolling green plains. Though the ride is long, the scenery is quite nice to look at—when piles of candy don't obstruct the view.

"How fucked is it?" Damian starts, tearing into a package of butterball popcorn with his teeth, "that a little bit of darkness stuns us into such fear that no one thinks to turn on a light? Want one?" He shoves the package under my nose and just the smell of buttered popcorn sends my stomach roiling with nausea like a ship on stormy seas.

Shaking my head, I shove his arm away and face the open doors for fresh air. This doesn't go unnoticed by Ezra who raises a brow in question. Looking away, I ignore him, though I don't fail to notice the sickly tinge to his own skin.

Elenora's eyes turn glacier as she leans forward, feathery white hair cascading over her shoulders to emphasize the coolness emanating from her. "It's called trauma, Damian. The war might be over but the effects of it aren't. It's completely understandable for a bit of darkness to render us immobile."

"I know that, Miss-know-it-all. What I meant was-"

"Someone should have used a _lumos_ charm and put themselves in danger?"

"There was no danger."

"Did you know that?"

There's a slight shake in his hands as he stuffs another butterball in his mouth, chewing loudly to avoid answering. She opens her mouth to say more when her eyes dart to the pile of candy Ezra placed between them. More specifically, her eyes find her favorite kind of candy. Noticing this, Ezra slides the butterbeer flavored chocolate bar across the seat. Elenora's eyes are all lit up like Christmas decorations as she accepts the tiny gift and begins to unwrap it as a greedy child might.

Ezra's eyes meet mine. "Everyone's been saying how different this year's going to be."

It's a sad attempt at changing the subject since Hogwarts is the source of anxiety for a lot of students this year. We have no idea what to expect now that the school is reopening for another year after the war. The only highlight is we know Professor McGonagall has taken on the position of Headmaster. It's a relief to us all to have a familiarity with her.

The biggest worry is how we're going to be able to return to a school that once held fond memories, but has since been tarnished by the war. Many people, I expect, will be suffering from terrible dreams and PTSD. A muggle term, but accurate for what the year will hold, no doubt.

Outside our compartment, the chatter flows easily among friends and I relax slightly in my seat. I even steal one of Damian's butterballs as I consider Ezra's words and the fact many other students are sharing the same worries about how this year will be ... interesting compared to previous years at Hogwarts.

Before I can comment, Elenora's the one who speaks up. "True," she agrees, munching thoughtfully on a piece of chocolate. "McGonagall's the best Headmaster we've got since Dumbledore."

Damian snorts with amusement. "Anyone is better than Umbridge." Even I crack a smile at that. Though the lady was small and feminine in her love for all things pink and feline, she was full of cruelty which she had no problem unleashing upon the students with her rules and punishments. Just the thought of her gives me the shudders. "Honestly, I'm surprised she wasn't secretly working for the Dark Lord. She was an evil vixen, that one."

I shift uncomfortably.

"What I meant," Ezra sighs, running a hand through the thick black strands that have fallen limp across his forehead, "is the way Slytherins will be treated differently this term since many of them turned out to be traitors. Worse, the Ministry is still hunting down those who may have a connection to the Dark Lord and other Death Eaters."

"Oh yeah," Elanor pipes up. "I heard not all Death Eaters and traitors have been accounted for and that's why Hogwarts is opening up earlier than planned. They're hoping to sniff out any traitors and hand them over to the ministry."

Ezra suddenly looks defeated as he slumps into his seat, rubbing his palms against the fabric of his pants. "Except, those whom the ministry has deduced played no major role in the Dark Lord's schemes have been placed under house arrest. The return to Hogwarts marks the end of their sentence which means the children of those families are allowed to return, should they choose to."

"They shouldn't be allowed to come back," Damian protests. "The war might be over but who's to say they are no longer a danger to the rest of us? And we're supposed to attend classes with these bastards as though they didn't try to kill us?" Damian's eyes shine with murder as his hands clenched into fists, unintentionally squishing his bag of butterballs.

"No one said it was fair," Elenora responds softly, her pinched features portraying the pain she feels for her friend. "But we have to take into consideration that the Ministry is taking every precaution possible to determine who's at fault and what punishment they deserve. Not everyone who fought in that war is guilty." Setting aside her candy bar, she places both her hands upon Damian's. "I'm sure McGonagall will have strict rules in place to ensure the safety of all her students. We are her responsibility now. And if the rumors are true and the reopening of Hogwarts is to help sniff out traitors, then maybe it's a good thing they return. Then we'll know for sure whether they're guilty."

Seeing reason, Damian loosed a breath and Elanor retracts her hands, placing them in her lap instead. The tension doesn't completely leave Damian's body, but at least we knew he isn't about to go tearing through the train in search of traitors.

My eyes flicker over to Ezra and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. Everything about him looks worn out and defeated like the battle was only a few days prior rather than just over a year. "You said something about the Slytherins joining the Dark Lord? Is this what you picked up on from working at the Ministry?"

He shrugs and picks at a piece of imaginary lint. "Some of it, yeah. Impossible to work there and not pick up on things." I can only imagine what he's heard in the office and corridors as the Ministry officials gossip between themselves about the mess they're left to clean up after the Dark Lord's defeat. The year off from school was meant to help us heal, but I imagine for Ezra, that must've been impossible when he was surrounded by news of the Dark Lord and his followers. "Not all of the Slytherins have been found guilty, but many agreed with the Dark Lord's notions of purity. After the war, many of their families were placed under suspicion, intensively questioned, and then placed under house arrest."

I hum, remembering I read something of a similar nature in one of the many newspapers detailing the happenings after the war. "The Slytherins will suffer."

"'bout time," Damian gripes.

"Not even ex-Death Eaters are allowed back. Most have been placed in jail or continue to suffer under severe questioning. Others who were considered to be 'forced' to carry out schemes under the Dark Lord have been placed under a strict and isolating House Arrest. The Ministry is really cracking down to find all those involved."

Damian shakes his head. "I can't believe it's been this long and we're no closer to putting this behind us. It's going to take some time before any of us truly feel safe again."

Not all Death Eaters are dangerous. Some have been forced to fulfill the Dark Lord's desires or suffer enormously before finally being given the reprieve of death. Maybe some death eaters feared this cruelty and rather than face it, fled to another part of the world where they could live a normal life and not have that black cloud of guilt and judgment hanging over their heads like a guillotine. And now they're being hunted when all they want is to suffer for their crimes alone, privately.

Rather than argue, I keep my mouth shut. It doesn't matter what I say, many people don't allow any consideration for the blackmail, manipulation, and torture they were put under. I force another butterball into my mouth, even though my throat has swollen to three times its size.

"We have to trust the authorities," Ezra says, sounding weary and forgoing the attempt to convince us the staff at Hogwarts knows what they are doing. Chances are, they're floundering for a sense of normality like the rest of us.

"On the bright side, that means Malfoy and gang won't be back to school," Damian mutters bitterly, knowing it isn't that much of a reprieve.

"I thought the Malfoy's have been sent to Azkaban?" Elenora wonders.

The butterball lodges itself in my throat. Wheezing, I lunge forward and try to cough it up but can't draw in any air to dispel the piece of food. My face starts to heat up as my throat burns and tears spill from my eyes. Ezra whips out his wand and seconds later the butterball escapes the tiny crevice in my throat and rolls across the carpeted ground.

"Merlin!" Elenora swears. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," I rasp. Ezra shoves a glass of cool water into my hands, which I greedily gulp down. When it's clear I don't need any more assistance, they ease back into their seats.

Keeping a concerned eye on me, Ezra responds to Elenora's question. "They were sent to Azkaban but released weeks later. When the Ministry discovered they fled during battle, they were labeled as deserters and placed under strict house arrest. Not much has been reported of them since then. They've probably chosen to lie low. Rightly, so."

"What do you mean?" I ask, ignoring Elenora's pointed stare.

"Why do you care?"

"I don't," I protest. "The whole family has too much blood on their hands for me to feel sorry for them."

"And how would you know that?"

"They work for the Dark Lord," I respond, at the same time Damian says: "Probably Potter. D'you reckon he'll be back this term?"

"I hope not," Elenora sighs, crossing her arms over her chest. "It'd be nice to go a term without hearing his name."

"That's a 180," Damian snorts.

"What's the supposed to mean?" she demands, eyes turning to slits.

Smiling, he says: "Your crush. Used to be you wouldn't shut up about Potter. Always griping on about how unlucky he was to be 'the boy who lived' and to have no one believe him about the Dark Lord's return. All that pain and suffering he had to go through over the years."

Elenora looks away, eyes fixed to the window and the rolling fields of greenery beyond it. "Yeah, well, we can all relate to that last one, can't we?"

The compartment falls silent with the exception of the chatter of other students. It would've been nice to have caught up about the year we missed like everyone else. To have spent that year away living normal lives and trying to shake off the effects of all the violence we witnessed. Unfortunately, we didn't have that luxury.

"How long were you at the hospital?" I ask softly, watching as the skin between her brows crinkled—either with pain or deep thought.

Without meeting anyone's eyes, she states: "seven months."

"Blimey!" Damian comments, getting to his feet without thinking. Ezra and I watch his package of butterballs land on the floor while its contents roll across the compartment and scatter in different directions. Damian doesn't seem to notice as he stares at Elenora in shock. "That long?"

"Sit down!" she hisses, noticing people nearby are glancing in our direction. Slowly, Damian does as she says, but his eyes don't leave hers as though analyzing her body language for any signs of unhealed injury. Yet, she looks the same as she always has. "Yes, I was there for that long, but not the reasons you think."

"Well, spit it out then."

Refusing to meet anyone's eyes, she resumes watching the passing scenery with feigned interest but when conversation fails to continue, she sighs. "It took two weeks to recover from my injuries. It would have been quicker had the hospitals not overflowed with an influx of victims and Death Eaters alike."

"Death Eaters?" Damian gulps, as stunned as the rest of us.

The compartment doors bang shut and I realize we've caught the attention of people passing by. I perform a quick silencing charm and those who overheard our conversation are forced to wander off.

"Yes," she admits, "they were taken to hospitals and healed in order to be questioned, though they were sectioned off in a highly guarded section of the building." She waves her hand, tossing the information aside like it's no big deal. "I-well it's no secret I've taken to potions and healing magic. If you'll remember I've mentioned wanting to ... potentially enter the medical field."

Frowning, Ezra says: "healing those people requires advanced magic and we haven't fulfilled our studies."

A blush taints Elenora's cheeks. "McGonagall says I'm a quick and eager learner."

"Cripes, another Hermione!" Damian blusters, rolling his eyes. "Ouch!" A thick package of chocolate bounces off his head as Elenora glares harshly in his direction.

"I'll have you know I helped save many lives over those seven months and I don't regret a second of it. They were severely understaffed," she sniffs.

Rubbing his head, Damian tells her, "I only meant we're replacing one know-it-all with another. Not that that's a bad thing," he rushes to say at her dark look. "It's incredible, actually. You helped save lives with some of the top-most witches and wizards of our time. Tell me your name at least went into the paper."

"Of course not!" Elenora looks absolutely appalled at the suggestion. "I didn't do it for the attention. If you heard the way they screamed in pain and called out for people who were no longer--," she stops abruptly, but we all know where she's going. "Well, you had to have been there."

Damian hangs his head ashamedly. "No, no you're right. I know what you mean."

I reach out and grab his hand, squeezing it tightly in sympathy but his remains limp in mine. There's a glossy sheen over his chestnut eyes as he's retreated into some dark recess of his mind. Forbidden thoughts that sting when touched.

"Your dad doing alright?" Ezra asks cautiously, rolling out the words like he's unsure he's supposed to. Even Elenora is watching him carefully like she doesn't know how he may react. My hand does not leave his though my touch remains unreturned.

After a few tense moments, Damian nods his head. "As alright as can be, I guess. Still misses Mum, Kora and Britt. Spends more time nursing the bottle than his own wounds but that's to be expected. No different than when they were alive."

Elenora winces. Leaning forward, Ezra looks at his friend with serious midnight black eyes. "Bloody bastard."

"Yeah."

"You come to us when you need it. Any of us. There's not a damn thing we won't do for you."

Damian swallows thickly, unable to meet anyone's eyes as he bobs his head. "Right. Thanks."

Our compartment falls silent. Enough wounds have been torn open to know our year away is nothing to brag about. It makes me wonder what that easy chatter outside of us is about. Surely no one else's year was much better? Unless they've all created an ideal year of summer's spent under a warm sun, at some beach, partying with family friends to avoid the kind of pain we've unnecessarily unleashed upon ourselves. All this violence and death the result of accepting our magical abilities and learning that things as silly as bloodlines and purity mattered more than morality.

Ezra's right. This school year will be different. Hogwarts is no longer a place of solace and safety but the source of our fears and sleepless nights.

Perhaps Hogwarts should have stayed closed.

***

Night has fallen by the time we're off the train and heading toward Hogwarts. All of us are completely knackered, ready to head straight to our rooms and fall into a deep slumber. If our conversation on the train didn’t promise dark dreams and violent memories to surface, I think we'd have called it a night. Instead, when our feet meet the stone floors of the main entrance and our noses sniff out warm food, we're immediately drawn to the dining hall.

Along the way, I notice parts of the castle destroyed in battle have been repaired to their former glory. Much of the school had been damaged, whole walls blown a part and wings completely obliterated. Hogwarts had fallen, as broken and irreparable as the dead lying at its feet. Months ago, it was impossible to imagine Hogwarts standing tall again, let alone with its doors open and students flooding inside with a hurry at the smell of food.

The Magical Repair Team have done a good job rebuilding the school. It’s impossible to know which sections of the castle caved in on itself and which stones have been bled on by the injured and dying. Though it seems the portraits and statues which once littered random hallways and corners of the school, the same ones which became ruined during the battle, have not been replaced. Though I never cared much for them myself, their presence was obnoxious and it’s hard not to notice their emptiness.

"It looks the same," Elenora says, walking into the dining hall with the three of us close behind. Dragging my eyes from the empty hallway, I notice she's right. The last time I was at Hogwarts, the entire room had been in shambles, but it was the best place to set up a make-shift hospital room for those who were injured. Outside these walls the battle raged on, people shouting curses and spells, the screams of the dying, cries of the frightened, and rock being blown apart. Inside, the dying lay in dark puddles of blood with their choke-filled moans echoing in the air while the wounded screamed themselves hoarse. Now, a year later, we’re dining where some took their last breaths.

Floating candles cast a warm amber glow over four oak-wood tables stretching across the length of the room. They’re piled high with home-cooked meals and desserts, their sweet scent saturating the air with warmth and welcome. Students have crammed themselves on wooden benches, chatting with their neighbors and stuffing their mouths full of food. At the front of the room, the staff and teachers were seated at their own tables, talking quietly amongst themselves as they scraped away at their own meals, occasionally letting their eyes roam across the room before them.

My eyes linger on the four banners at the end of each table: Slytherin, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw. Any hope I held about the four houses being abolished dissipates like smoke. It seems house rivalries will continue. While it brings back a bit of normality into our lives, I can only see it causing problems. A fresh new start was meant to help us move forward into acceptance and abolishing our old prejudices. Holding onto the bad history between houses only offers a continuation of our problematic mindsets. McGonagall must know what she’s doing, of course. A lot of thought has gone into reopening the school and what changes will be brought about. Perhaps I am only looking for trouble where there isn’t any.

Elenora touches my arm, jolting me out of my head and letting the sound of chattering students drown any thoughts I previously held. “Are you alright? I think we lost you there for a second.” A slanted smile blossoms across her face, eyes shining with amusement or perhaps concern. With the candlelight blaring in her eyes, its hard to tell.

“It’s good to be back, isn’t it?” I don’t sound too sure. Rather than respond, she loops her arm through mine and we follow after the two boys ahead of us, eyes wide at the sight of so much food. We head toward the Ravenclaw table, stopping every so often to say hello to classmates we haven't seen in a while. Eventually, hunger forces us to grab an empty seat and pile our plates of whatever is readily available. Damian snorts when he catches sight of my plate organized into meats, veggies, fruit, and dessert with a side of buttered bread.

"Glad to see your strange eating habits haven't changed."

Elenora huffs with indignation. "Says the person who spent the entire train ride stuffing their face full of candy. Not only is it a wonder how you're still hungry, but it's a wonder you're not the size of Hagrid!"

Ezra rose a brow. "You mean ... a giant?"

"Well, you'd think he should be watching him eat."

Rather than dignify her with a response, Damian cheerily shoves another forkful of roasted chicken into his mouth. I follow suit and moan at the burst of flavor across my tongue. Somehow, the food at Hogwarts manages to taste better than anywhere else in the Wizarding and Muggle realm. And after so many hours of traveling on an empty stomach, I happily cram as much food into my mouth as possible without having a choking fit like earlier.

As I eat, I glance around the dining hall at all the students sitting and laughing in their robes, enjoying a meal among friends and house mates. It seems many chose to return for another school year despite the bad memories this place held. Though the few empty seats don't go unnoticed. I wonder if they will stay empty or if some students are late to arrive.

My eyes dart to the Slytherin table where Malfoy and his friends--those who survived--usually sit, only to find other people have inhabited those spots now. People who speak quietly, heads bents toward one another, only poking at their food as though they, too, know this year will be different for them.

Out of curiosity, I search the Gryffindor table for the famous trio but I don't see them among the students gathered. Though I agree with Elenora that their names have been used hundreds of times over the years and have long since exhausted themselves, there is something thrilling about having them here. Or maybe that feeling is the fear of knowing that without them, things really will be different around the school.

Ezra follows my line of sight. "Looks like Potter won't be back, along with his friends."

Elenora briefly glances at the Gryffindors before returning her attention back to her food. "Why would they? They spent their whole lives preparing for a battle most of us didn't see coming until it was right upon us. School probably seems pointless to them."

Ezra trails a piece of chicken through the pool of gravy on his plate. "To get a job you need an education."

And there it is, the unspoken reason why so many accepted Hogwarts' invitation to return for another year at school. Not because anyone wants to, but because they must. Damian stares hard at his empty plate, not saying a word.

The sound of tinkling glass catches the room's attention, with heads swiveling towards the staff table. By the time it stops, so does the chatter. "Headmaster McGonagall would like to have a few words."

The woman in question rises from her chair. The seat next to hers, the one where Dumbledore once sat when he was Headmaster, remains empty. "Thank you, Minerva."

McGonagall looks the same as ever, with her hair pulled back into a severe bun and her features pinched with an aura of strict authority. Though she lost many friends and students over the years to the Dark Lord and his followers, she stands among us with strength and pride at our return.

"First, welcome back to Hogwarts. I know the choice to return was not an easy one and maybe not a wanted one. Like the rest of you, these walls hold bad memories of death, pain, and suffering. Even betrayal from those we once trusted with our happiest memories, our weaknesses, our secrets. It might seem impossible to overcome these trials, especially during the upcoming days when the routine of school, friendships, and sports require us to pretend like things are normal when they are not.

"You are not alone in this feeling. Look to your friends, your peers, your teachers, and know we are all here to help one another through these difficult times. When life becomes tough, I'd like to remind you this place holds many good memories and I'd like you to reflect upon these memories with fondness and promise yourselves to make better ones.

"For those of you who are new to this school, I'd like to assure you this school is safe and that you will not regret your decision to learn about our history and your future. Your safety, along with everyone else's in this room, is our utmost priority as your teachers, guardians, authority figures, and Headmaster.

"To prove this, we have rules we expect to be followed without question. Our older students will remember these regulations well and may find these reminders tedious, but they are in place for good reason. There are curfews: you will be in your common areas and rooms by nine pm during the weekdays and eleven pm on the weekends. Anyone found roaming the halls or in places they should not be without good reason or permission, will be punished. The Forbidden forest, the library's restricted area, staff areas, and Hogsmeade for those who are not of age or granted permission to be on the premises, will be punished. Anyone failing to abide by these rules will be swiftly dealt with.

"As for the second thing I would like to discuss: Hogwarts has been working closely with the Ministry to track down those who might have fought for Voldemort." Hearing his name spoken aloud only emphasizes the hush of quiet that fell once McGonagall started speaking. "Any concerns regarding your fellow students will be brought to your teachers or to me directly. Anyone who dares to take it upon themselves to act upon their own inquiries into another student's integrity will be punished most severely. We, as your authority figures, take it upon ourselves to look into any concern you may have immediately and thoroughly. Should we find there is any reason for concern, they will be taken directly to the Ministry to be dealt with."

A burst of nervous energy causes whispers to rise. It soon dies with McGonagall's next few words. "That is not to say you are here to be interrogated, spied on, or antagonized. Anyone who treats their peers unfairly and unjustly will find themselves speaking with me directly. Do I make myself clear?" When there is no response, McGonagall nods. "Good. I'd like to reassure you that every student accepted back at Hogwarts has been with the trust of myself, the staff, and the Ministry themselves. Therefore, any concern a student may have is in direct opposition to the opinion of Hogwarts and the Ministry." She pauses, as though expecting someone to outright speak against her. When it remains silent, she continues. "Right, then. That leaves us with one more thing: enjoy your dinner, rejoice with your friends, and return to your rooms. Classes start tomorrow." McGonagall takes a seat, effectively ending her speech and allowing conversations to resume among students. No doubt we are all abuzz with this new information and the fear that once more we're being pitted against one another in a deadly battle.


	2. Normality

*Trigger Warning: Swearing, Implied Sexual Content, Bullying, Torture*

The worst part about waking up on a Monday morning is not, in fact, due to it being Monday but the splitting headache rousing me from sleep. Clearly, all that fire whiskey was _not_ a brilliant idea, especially the night before class. But I can't remember a bloody thing, which was the point after all. To not think about anything. To not _dream_.

Anything but the goddamn dreams. Last night was brilliant. Merlin knows how I managed to get into bed—or get dressed for that matter—but sleep was a deep, dark cloud of _nothing_. For once, I made it through the night without waking up drenched in sweat with a scream locked in my throat and nails bloodied with self-inflicted scratches. The first blissful night of absolute, fuck-all _nothing_.

The curtains 'round my bed are pulled back and Felicity reaches in, shoving a vial into my hands before hopping around the room and stumbling into a dresser. "Ouch!" she complains, hobbling on one foot as she tries to ram the other into a shoe. The frizzy blonde mess atop her head is tangled and sticking out in all directions. A clear sign of the wild partying done the night before—and how extremely hungover she is. Though, the dark circles under her eyes are a clear enough indicator.

"What in Merlin's name is this?" I ask, giving the vial a curious but wary glance. The liquid itself is clear and gives off no noticeable odor which leads me to believe it's completely unsafe to ingest. Not to mention Felicity is rubbish at potions. There's a good chance ingesting this will kill me or at the very least, make me all kinds of ill that even Pomfrey won't know how to heal. Definitely not a risk I'm willing to make. No matter _what_ it is.

"Bottoms up!" she says, finally slipping on her shoe and catching sight of my glance. "For the hangover." When I still refuse to touch it, she huffs. "Byron and Timothy made it, yeah? Drink the damn thing already. We're going to be late."

With that question solved, I don't hesitate to knock back the potion. A few drinks at night and one of these in the morning, and I might solve my problem of how to make it through the school year without waking my bedmates to screaming. Stumbling into my room drunk every night may raise a few questions, though.

I slide out of bed to join Felicity in the rush of getting ready. It doesn't take long to dress in Hogwart's traditional robes and gather my supplies for the day. What I'm most worried about are the crowds of students clogging the hallways with their mates, refusing to accept their year's vacation is over and school has officially robbed them of any and all freedom. Another sort of imprisonment. I hang onto the hope that good memories can be made here in place of the bad ones like McGonagall promised.

When we’re ready, Felicity and I find ourselves caught in the onslaught of robed students milling around the hallway in clusters, leaving a select few to weave around them as they head to class. Since our morning schedules are different, there’s no chance of facing the start of our day together. Suddenly, a day of school seems more daunting than it did moments ago, especially when the noise level only worsens the personal hammering taking place inside my head. Maybe potions aren't worth the effort if they take forever to work.

"See you later, Pops! Don't get into any trouble you can't get out of.” Felicity winks, disappearing in the opposite direction with a wave. Then she's swallowed whole by the mass of students either lingering in large groups or those fighting the crowd to reach their classes on time.

Sighing, I join the fray and hug my books close to my chest as I scurry down the hallway. Light from outside filters through the long, narrow windows and I wonder if a bit of magic has been applied to make the building seem brighter than normal. A bit of false light to create a cheery mood. Only when I pull my eyes from the floor do I see it's unnecessary. People are smiling and laughing all around me, creating their own atmosphere of happy delight as they engage in conversation with friends they haven't seen in forever.

It's nice to see that carefree light reenter the darkness in the eyes of people who've carried around their grief and sins for too long. Being back at Hogwarts has done some good. It's reunited those who thought they would never see one another again. Maybe our studies will take our minds off the pain and allow us to keep this small part of ourselves that never got to flourish with the weight of war and death fresh on our minds at all times.

It feels like a regular school year at Hogwarts where friends cluster together gossiping, laughing at bad jokes, and flinging their arms around one another's shoulders. This is the kind of happiness that's been missing in these halls for the past four years, maybe longer. I hope it stays this way, otherwise, all of the careful planning to bring a new, open-mindedness to the school will—

"Poppy!"

I glance over my shoulder and see Matthias, a sixth-year Gryffindor I've had an on and off relationship with, racing through the hallway to reach me. His blond curls bounce as he jogs down the hallway, turning golden under streaks of the morning sun that shine through long, narrow windows. Nothing is as bright as the dimpled smile on his face when he catches sight of me in the bustling crowd.

"How was your year of freedom?" he wonders when he catches up to me. We stand off to the side, making it easier for those heading to class to pass by.

"Pretty boring," I shrug nonchalantly despite the rapid beating of my heart and sweating palms. It was anything but boring, but I'm not about to enter a competition of who's had it worse, so I keep the conversation light. "How was your year?"

He leans a shoulder against the wall, focusing those baby blue hues solely on me like there's nothing more worth his attention. When he flashes me a smile, layering on the charm, he reveals a row of stunningly white teeth. "Adventurous."

I quirk a brow. "No details?"

God, those teeth are so white. "If you're curious, I'll give you the full experience tonight. The Greenhouse?"

I toss my head back and laugh. "You never stop, do you?"

Matthias' lips frown in disappointment, though amusement burns like a brightly lit star in his eyes. "C'mon Poppy. You're the original. My first love!" He places his hands over his heart as though wounded. "Don't keep turning me down. My offer is purely--"

"Innocent?"

"Depends on whose definition of 'innocent'."

I smirk and shake my head. "Fine, yeah. _Casual_." I emphasize the last word, refusing to let him turn my answer into something it most definitely is not. Beaming, he nods his head enthusiastically. "Tonight, one in the morning. If you're late, I'm gone and you'll be waking up with sores all over your--"

"Jeez Poppy, only an idiot would stand you up." Placing a kiss on my cheek, he says, "You won't regret it." I can tell our conversation is done until later tonight, but then he pauses and frowns, brushing the pads of his fingertips against the flushed skin of my cheeks. He opens his mouth to say something, then stops. "See you later, _Penelope_ ," and then he darts off into the crowd before I can smack him for the use of my full name. One I absolutely _detest_.

As I resume my walk to class—a full seven flights of stairs reduced to three due to Ravenclaw’s tower being located on the fourth floor—I muse over Matthias' proposition and whether I actually want to show up. Sneaking out for a night of passion seems redundant and disrespectful after everything that's happened over the past year. The battle, the injuries, the healing—the _dead_. Where does acting like lovesick fools get us? _Nowhere_. It feels childish, like that part of ourselves has sloughed off and died somewhere. Trying to recreate that spark for old time's sake feels pointless. There _is_ no spark, no matter how attractive he may be.

And yet, I wonder if this is the kind of distraction I need. To get lost in the throes of someone else's arms, to be held and cared for the way I haven't been in—blimey, I can't remember how long. Though it shames me to admit it, being cared for—even if it's not the care I crave or require—excites me. Maybe it won't be so bad letting someone in, just for one night. To have someone worship me and love me in ways that might make me feel normal again. To feel human. To feel ... _something_.

Those aren't thoughts I have time for. Not now and maybe not ever.

I push open the heavy wooden doors to my Advanced Arithmancy Studies class and find a seat at the back of the room where I place my parchment and pen to the side. The clock says there are still five minutes to go until classes start. All I want to do is crawl under my bed covers and sleep. Why do I let myself become easily swayed by parties and free alcohol?

"You look exactly how I feel," a familiar voice says, taking the seat beside me.

I groan. "Like a bludger has been taken to the head?"

"'Bout right," Rory says, rubbing at his temples with his eyes screwed shut. "Big mistake that was, partying the night before classes. Next time I do something that stupid, might as well drink myself to death. Be less painful, that will."

Snorting, I have to agree with him. "Think many others are faring the same?"

"Possibly," he mutters quietly, the only noise level he can stand more than likely. "Some were smart enough to take a potion beforehand. Bet they woke feeling right as rain this morning."

We groan when the doors burst open and students flood inside to claim their seats. The two of us sink lower in our seats as the room fills with noise. It seems there's no escaping the chatter. I wonder how people can talk this much for so long. What can they possibly have to say that has not yet been mentioned? When a couple of girls giggle obnoxiously from beside me, I feel a great temptation to ask but refrain when Alastar takes a seat on the other side of me.

Also a Ravenclaw, Alastar and I have known one another for years and often share the same classes as Rory. With his reddish-gold hair, he looks similar to the Weasley's, though he has far less freckles and is much more tan than the lot of them. Beneath his eyes are dark black-purple circles of a restless night spent partying, circles much like mine and Rory's no doubt. The green in his eyes are very striking despite the dim lighting in the room as he leans toward the two of us and lowers his voice to a whisper.

"Have you heard?" he asks us. "Students have already been accused of being involved with the Dark Lord."

Rory and I look to each other, surprise written across both our features before focusing on Alastar again. "Where did you hear that?" Rory demands.

"Overheard Professor Foxglove and Professor Badger talking about it this morning as I was passing the potions classroom. Apparently, Cerebus and McGonagall are looking into it as there's been no official announcement as to who's been accused."

"Or whether it's legit," I whisper furiously. "Honestly, getting a bunch of students to spy on one another—what were they thinking!? All it takes is one slight against someone and they find themselves on the receiving end of blasphemy." Crossing my arms, I stare gloomily at the table in front of me. This year's going to be utter hell if students are going to be held for questioning on several occasions because of a silly argument and frankly, I do not like the thought of someone accusing me of working for the Dark Lord just for speaking my mind. And I speak my mind _a lot_.

"Got something to hide, do you?" Agatha Finch snarls from behind me. Despite the horrendous name, Agatha's actually a beautiful Slytherin with captivating smoky green eyes and golden-blonde hair that falls like a liquid curtain down her spine. Dressed in a black blazer with the Slytherin crest on the breast, she wears a pair of black tights and a hitched-up skirt to emphasize her long, toned thighs. Under the table, one leg is crossed over the other with a black ankle-heeled boot bobbing up and down ferociously. Too close to my seat for my comfort, personally.

I roll my eyes. "Got something against me, do you?"

She shrugs. "Nothing more than the usual." Of course, she's referring to the time when the two of us were sleeping with the same guy. Not Matthias, of course. Agatha would never dare stoop so low. "Only, there are rumours going around about a special weapon. The _Dark Lord's_ special weapon. They say he had a back-up plan in case Potter _did_ manage to play a winning hand. Something no one will see coming until it's too late."

It's Alastar's turn to roll his eyes. "C'mon Finch, you're more than just a pretty face, aren't you? Not everything has to be a special agenda of You-Know-Who. The Ministry's only doing what they failed to do last time: clean up any lingering mess left behind by You-Know-Who's followers."

"You can't be that dense, can you?" she snarls, still managing to look gorgeous despite the way her face is twisted up in anger. "There won't _be_ a revival if the Dark Lord's dead, which means the only reason the Ministry's so worried is if there's a _reason_ for them to come together again. Hence, You-Know-Who's secret weapon."

A scathing laugh bursts out of Rory. "Sounds _exactly_ like something Skeeter would write to instill fear in her readers and create more conflict than necessary among witches and wizards alike. Snuff it, Finch."

I examine my nails, realizing it's been a while since I've gotten them done. In light of everything, it didn't seem worth the effort. Maybe I need to rethink that notion now they've been bitten down to stubs as a distraction from any anxiety-provoking thoughts. "Finch does seem the type to take Skeeter's word as fact."

Rory smirks. "There's not going to be a revival because there's no secret weapon with You-Know-Who's defeat and the imprisonment of his followers, or were you too busy sunbathing in Greece to notice?"

Sensing the brewing tension ready to burst into a firework display of flames, Alastar buts in again. "The Ministry's trying to prevent any followers of his from taking petty revenge since they can't seem to accept defeat. There's no such thing as a revival or secret weapon, nor has anything of the sort been confirmed by The Ministry themselves. Unless you're sitting on some important information you hid to secure your own freedom?"

Finch bristles with mirth. For a second, I almost feel sorry for her as I remember the Dark Lord killed both her parents for failure to comply with is wishes on some top-secret mission, leaving her and her older sister Daisy as orphans. Both were forced to join the Dark Lord's fight or join their parents in the grave—if there was even anything left of them to bury. But then I remember many wizards and witches who've been through just as much—if not worse—and are a million times more respectful and remorseful for their actions than Finch ever will be. She might be pardoned for her actions, but her attitude needs a serious check.

"I've been thoroughly questioned and had my memories oh-so-kindly siphoned for the Ministry to browse and judge as they deem fit. My point, children, is that the Ministry's fear stems from rising rumors that the Dark Lord had an ... insurance, of sorts, put into place to ensure his plans for the wizarding world should he ever," and she drags a finger across her throat for emphasis. "Hence, the Dark Lord's secret weapon."

"And what's that got to do with Poppy?" Alastar asks, his tone suggesting he's lost all interest in this conversation.

Agatha flicks her nails in annoyance, green sparks dancing off the ends of them before fizzling out. "Clearly none of you read the Daily Prophet."

A stone sinks to the pit of my stomach. "Spit it out, Agatha. What are you on about?"

"Dolohov was captured a week ago and put on trial for his crimes. Poor guy spent a lot of time being tortured beforehand for information. The tribunal thought an angry, spiteful audience might spur him into releasing _something_ worth their while. It didn't quite go as planned, but he still spared a few juicy bits to those willing to listen."

"Spare us the re-cap, Finch, and get on with it," Alastar sighs. Looking severely annoyed, she snaps: "He was speaking about the Dark Lord's weapon, you twats. Someone who will fulfill his wishes, re-band his followers, and bring righteousness to them all."

"He could've made that up to spare his own arse," Rory spits.

"Ah, but the one who will damn us all is supposedly marked by a teardrop," she smirks, a knowing glint in her eyes.

I raise a brow. "Anyone can have a birthmark in that shape."

Alastar connects the dots, though if he's surprised, it doesn't show. "So Poppy has this 'mark' Dolohov mentions after having been tortured for days and now you're convinced she's the one who's responsible for the _potential_ deaths of non-Purebloods and those against their superiority complex?"

Even his tone suggests how far fetched all this sounds, and yet, Finch looks perfectly at ease reclined in her seat, nails tapping the wooden surface of her desk. "Obviously there's no concrete proof, otherwise Montgomery's brains would be splattered across a dank, rancid cell somewhere in Azkaban with Dementors staking claim over her soul."

I laugh, startling her out of her spiteful reverie. "You seriously think I'm this secret weapon based off a crazy man's ramblings and the Prophet's skewed intentions? Either Rory's right and you are more beauty than brains or you are completely and utterly infatuated with me and my awesome prowess, Finch. I'm caught between insult and flattery, honestly." To rub salt in the wound, I flick my dark curls over my shoulder. Who cares what Agatha thinks? That Rita Skeeter woman is conjuring up ghost stories with the hopes of creating the following she once had.

After Potter won the war and the trials that followed were filed away into dark corners, the papers ran out of things to draw people's interests. Things reluctantly took a nosedive towards the utterly boring and mundane which caused sales to sink lower than the deepest depths of the ocean's floor. No one wanted to read about how perfectly normal other people's lives were when they were struggling to deal with their own losses and grief. Normality was a slap in the face. Now journalists were dipping their fingers into creatively spun tales, twining a bit of truth into it to grab people's attention and keep their pockets full of their coin. And idiots like Agatha Finch are falling for it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Agatha is positively steaming. Before she can cough up another lungful of toxic waste, Professor Vector strolls into the room, demanding everyone's immediate attention. Though the room's completely silent, I can hear the internal groans and sighs as everyone reaches for their parchment and quills.

Our year away is over and school has officially begun—ready or not.

***

I'm roaming the halls and heading to my next class when I spot a familiar head of hair and the robes to match. For a moment I'm struck dumb, convinced my eyes are seeing things but no, Pansy Parkinson has returned to school and is clutching her books tight to her body. The only reason I've noticed her in the first place is that a bunch of third years have scrunched their notes from their first class of the day into paper balls they've magicked to pelt Pansy. When they land upon her body, they bounce off before zooming back to take another hit. Keeping her head ducked, she hurries through the hallway but raucous laughter and cruel taunts follow wherever she goes.

Trembling, I trip over my feet, numb, before I manage to gain control over myself and hurry after the crowd. All the while I wonder why the hell she returned to Hogwarts. The last time we saw her, she was ready to hand Harry over to the Dark Lord. The whole school turned their wands against her and her fellow Slytherins. They'd been cast away, shunned. Why has she been allowed to return?

My wand's in my hand, the knots of wood digging painfully into my sweaty palms as I race to catch up. As my boots pound against the stone floors, the crowd becomes more violent and shoves in against their target. There's a few seconds where I lose sight of her, but the paper balls are still pelting her from all sides and strands of her hair are being pulled by invisible hands high above her head. Through it all, she still snaps angry retorts at her aggressors. Same old Pansy, through thick and thin.

There's a tiny break in the crowd and I can see blood welling from numerous scratches across her cheeks and forehead. One side of her face is starting to swell—from what, I can't tell. It's all purple and grey and splotchy. Very unpleasant looking. As I shove forward, I scan the hallway for a sign of a teacher or prefect, someone who might step in and put a stop to this. I don't see anyone. Up to me, then.

The unmistakable sound of books dropping to the floor and pages rustling is followed by the horrifying, agonized screams caused by the _cruciatus_ curse. My blood freezes as I use my elbows to force my way to the center. At the same time, my mind's stuck on the fact a student used an unforgivable against another student—even if it is Pansy Parkinson.

Pansy's a quivering ball on the floor, her screams dying down to pain-filled whimpers as she curls in on herself. The crowd jeers and surges forward with their wands drawn, each faced turned up into an ugly snarl as their eyes land on Pansy's vulnerable form. A third year, Oliver Cobalt, has his wand raised with a spell on his lips. He doesn't get a chance to use it as I shout " _expelliarmus_ " over the cacophony. Disarmed, I turn back to Pansy and shield her body with my own.

"Move out of the way, Ravenclaw!"

"-pureblood filth!"

"-stupid of you to come back!"

"Dark Lord cunt!"

"-not going to get anywhere in the Wizarding community as a traitor to the-"

"-should have been put in Azkaban where you belong, you-"

"Dark Lord loving bi-"

"-kill her like she did to our families!"

"Good for nothing, psychotic Slytherin cun-"

"Let us at her you stupid piece of-"

"-should never have been allowed into Hogwarts when-"

"-lives at risk-"

"-not safe-"

"What is going on here? Is that Pansy Parkinson?" The outraged voice of Professor McGonagall breaking through the wall of students scares many into fleeing before they can be caught and punished. Relief floods through my veins. Beneath me, Pansy whimpers.

When she reaches us, I finally release my grip over Pansy and roll out of the way. "Who made use of the unforgivable curse?" she demands, eyes angrily surveying the crowd that has gone deathly silent under her steely gaze. "Well?" When no one responds, McGonagall helps Pansy to her feet and I follow suit. "Miss Montgomery, please escort Miss Parkinson to Madame Pomfrey while I attend to this _situation_."

Without a word, I do as she says and I sling one of Pansy's arms around my shoulder. A hiss of pain is the only sign of how much she's hurting. Otherwise, her eyes are hard and determined as we march away, head held high despite the numerous glares sending daggers at her. There's not one friendly face to be seen in this crowd. None of them—despite McGonagall's presence—is afraid to show how much they detest her. The very longing in their eyes to see her dead forces me to keep my eyes pinned to the floor, all the while thinking _it's not fair_.

And it isn't. They have no idea what Pansy's been through. They're not even willing to _think_ about it when they're blinded by their own grief. Before, I wouldn't have blamed them. But that was _before_ they used an unforgivable curse on her—unprovoked.

It's not long until McGonagall's furious tones reach our ears before disappearing altogether when we round a corner. With the heated stares of our fellow students behind us, I feel able to breathe again.

"Are you alright?"

"Why do you care?" she snaps.

I'm taken aback by her sharp tone, though after the welcome she's received, it's no wonder she's suspicious of any kindness offered to her. "I guess—I guess I just do ... because that was unbelievably cruel." Pansy snorts. _"What?"_ I snap.

"You're seriously going to try and fool people with that act, are you?"

"What are you talking about?"

She rolls her eyes. "Do I need to break it down to you in simple terms?" After a prolonged silence, she sighs. "You sleep around. You _use_ people. I have no idea why you're trying to play _Gryffindor_ with your heroics, but I'm not buying it. What do you want from me?"

"Why are you here?" The question tumbles from my mouth before I have the time to catch it. "Why have you returned to Hogwarts?"

Pansy's scathing look makes me shrink. "Why do you _think_ , Montgomery? Either we have the money—after paying all the fines and damages for our _crimes_ —to get through the rest of our lives or we prove we are ' _upstanding citizens_ ' by attending school and regaining the trust of everyone to _potentially_ be hired by someone who _might_ be brave enough take on follower of the Dark Lord." She laughs. "If you think back there was cruel and unfair, it's got nothing on months spent in Azkaban, being tortured, put under house arrest, then being sent _here_ of all places to prove I'm 'reformed' and deserve a place in the wizarding world. If I even survive."

"You will."

She shakes her head. "If they're not afraid to use the _cruciatus_ curse on me, who's to stop them from using the killing curse?"

I swallow thickly. "They wouldn't. They'd risk expulsion and a life spent in prison with no chances of being redeemed."

"This is still a war for them. All the people they've lost and seen killed before them.... the whole world shattered right in front of them and there was nothing they could do to stop it from happening. Hurting me and anyone else who dares show their face here is their way of fighting back, bit by bit, piece by piece until the world resembles something like the one they lost. Killing me won't bring it back, but it's a start."

"McGonagall won't--"

"McGonagall _can't_. Bloody hell, Ravenclaw. I thought you guys were the brainy ones." I don't have time to be offended as she continues on. "She's not the one in control here. Not _really_. The Ministry's the one pulling the strings. They're the ones keeping a close on everyone and everything. Wouldn't surprise me if they have bugs around this place."

"McGonagall--"

"--can't do anything, Montgomery. Get that through your thick as bloody steel skull! Why do you think she sits next to the Headmaster's chair? Some bloody ode to _Dumbledore_? Gods, this is how the Dark Lord's return caught you all off guard. No one's willing to see what's beneath their bloody noses. Why else would she refuse to sit there if she's _truly_ the headmaster? Unless someone already occupies that seat. Someone with a lot of power and sway over the wizarding world who wants to create a false sense of security to sniff out those who don't belong. People like me, Montgomery. Now if you don't mind, we've reached the hospital wing and I've been sick of your presence since I first caught sight of your face."

"Wait," I say, my next question on the tip of my tongue but it's too late. The doors fling open and Pomfrey ushers us inside. The doors snick shut behind us as I follow Pomfrey through the room as she shoots off a dozen questions our way. I do my best to ignore her questions about what happened under Pansy's pointed gaze until she finally whirls to a stop and demands an answer.

"Nothing serious," I end up saying, "McGonagall will fill you in." As I'm sure she'll be here to check in on Pansy and find out who used the cruciatus curse. Of course, knowing Pansy, she won't reveal a word and it's not because she feels she owes the student any ounce of kindness they refused to show her, but because tattling could mean her life.

I can tell Pomfrey wants to ask more questions, her suspicion high, but her desire to help an injured student wins. My grip on Pansy vanishes as Pomfrey takes over to lead her towards a hospital bed.

"Pansy?" Only Pomfrey looks my way. "I’m sorry." Pansy doesn't say a word as I swiftly exit the room, but then again, I don't expect her to.


	3. Release

Every class is spent listening to the rustling whispers of gossiping students. The use of an unforgivable on Pansy Parkinson is making its rounds. Try as I might, it's impossible to focus on lessons. Keeping my head down and flipping through pages of work doesn't block the excited hum vibrating in the air or erase the wide-eyed anticipation of finding out whether the person responsible will be found. This is the most exciting thing to happen since the war. To find out whether someone will be punished or whether they'll get away with using an unforgivable. A moment to tip the scales.

What will happen if McGonagall doesn't find the person responsible and Pansy refuses to give any names to save her own pride? Will it mean the death of her and countless Slytherins when students begin to realize they can get away with more than what they had imagined? Or will there, hopefully, remain the line that cannot be crossed?

All I can think about is how this can spark another war between us. None of us want to enter another battle. And yet, knowing there's a chance of winning ... of executing anyone who poses a threat to the safety we've begun to enter into ....

My fingers tighten around my quill. _Focus, focus, focus._ The words on the board blur together. Professor Slughorn's voice warbles into an unrecognizable continuum of sound like he's speaking underwater. I press my quill into the parchment, to write something on the topic of Amortentia and its basic properties. If I can focus on taking notes to distract myself long enough, then—

Suddenly, I can't breathe. There's a pressure on my ribcage, squeezing the bones together. A loud buzzing fills my ears like the cacophony of a thousand bees swarming over honey. Behind it all, a woman is screaming. Long, agonized screams. I think it might be Pansy. It might even be me. It grows louder, beginning to take over the loud buzzing until—

 _"Please, please don't hurt my babies."_ _"_

_Do it, Penelope. DO IT NOW!"_

" _Oh god, please no. I'll do anything, just please don't hu-_ "

"Crucio."

My eyes snap open and stare at my parchment. There's blood all over it. Splattered all across the white pages and staining my hands. If there wasn't so much pressure on my chest, the cloying metallic scent surely would've caused last night's firewhiskey to spew across the pages.

When I blink, the blood disappears and is replaced by ink. Black ink. Then I see the remains of my quill scattered in pieces across my desk and floor. The breath comes back to me in a loud gulp. _Ink._ Not blood. My hands shake as I lift my head. Everyone's staring at me.

"Miss Montgomery?" Professor Slughorn asks. "Do you need a new quill?"

The class erupts in snickers.

***

Dinner's halfway over when I arrive at the dining hall. Most of my time was spent in the Owlery, sending out subscriptions to a dozen or more newspapers. The conversation Finch initiated this morning set off a warning signal in my mind. Something was happening, something big, and I think she's right. Winning the battle and the defeat of our enemies has made us arrogant enough to believe we've snuffed out any possibility of a revival. We've blinded ourselves.

When I finish in the Owlery, I put in a request at the library for previous editions to any newspaper that might have details on the trials of the Dark Lord's followers. Madam Pince eyes me suspiciously and says it will take hours to gather. She suggests I come back in two days' time. I have a feeling word of it will reach McGonagall, but I can't worry about that. If there's something going on, something we're missing, it will be in those papers. How else would the Dark Lord's followers be able to communicate with one another in detainment?

By the time I reach the dining hall, I feel frazzled and halfway out of my mind. Surely I'm just being paranoid about the Dark Lord's followers finding ways to communicate with one another. Most are dead now, I presume. And yet, I can't get Finch's words out of my head. There _will_ be a revival through the Dark Lord's secret weapon. Another war. Another battle. One we won't see coming until it's too late. _Again._

I'm feeling too nauseous to eat, but I force myself to walk over to where my friends are sitting. Most of the dining hall has emptied and I notice my friends have already finished their meals and are chatting quietly.

"There you are!" Elenora declares, a healthy red flush to her cheeks as she announces my presence. "Where have you been? Dinner is half over. We were getting worried you'd forgotten your way around the school."

Ezra leans back in his seat, rolling his eyes. "She's just upset you've missed most of the gossip."

"It's all anyone's been talking about all day!"

Damian yawns, his head resting on one hand as he twirls his plate around on the table. "First Pansy Parkinson and then Daphne Greengrass ... the school is falling to shambles once again. And McGonagall assured us she had everything under control."

"Wait, Greengrass. She's back, too?" I ask.

Damian snorts. "Most of them are. Or is it not the Slytherin table you keep glancing at every night?" I flush with embarrassment. "It's disgusting, the way they sit there talking amongst themselves like it wasn't a year ago they were about to hand Potter over to the Dark Lord and have us all killed like the cowards they are."

"We are not going over this again," Elenora huffs, "the Ministry is—"

"—doing their best, yeah? If they were doing their best, then why the hell are they allowing all these bloody murderers return—"

"There's no proof! Besides, if they've been allowed back they've obviously undergone severe questioning to determine they're no danger to—"

"Parkinson mentioned—" I try to interrupt, but find myself cut off.

" _Parkinson_ ," Damian mocks, face twisted into a sneer. "Who can trust what Parkinson or _any_ of them, for that matter?"

My tongue pokes my cheek and I consider whether or not to continue when Damian, as usual, has become riled over anything to do with the Slytherins. I notice Elenora and Ezra are watching me carefully and I return to staring at my untouched plate of food, my heart pounding nervously in my chest. "Parkinson might've let loose that the Slytherins are on a trial run. She said it was the Ministry's attempt to reintegrate them into society while being able to keep a close eye on their behavior. To weed out, well, anyone who might still be a danger."

"And if they fail?" Ezra prods, "what then?"

"At best, they fail to secure themselves a job and, well, most likely they'll be rejected from the wizarding society and suffer financially, too. At worst ... a retrial and depending on the findings the tribunal come up with ... a sentence to Azkaban. Indefinitely." While the last part is speculation on my side of things, I know it to be true. The fear in Pansy's eyes that she tried so hard to shove aside was there. She's truly afraid of being killed because of her past connections—by the Ministry and her classmates.

"And the adults?" Damian wonders. "They get the easy end of the stick then, that it?"

Ezra takes over since he knows the answer from working with his father over the summer. "House arrest until they're deemed no longer a threat to society. Many have taken low-paying jobs just to secure themselves financially with the hope of redeeming themselves. A few, those who had a deeper and more important role in the war such as the Malfoy's, suffer longer terms of a house arrest."

"Sounds like imprisonment," Elenora mutters, picking at her veggies.

Unable to hold back any longer, I glance back at the Slytherin table and notice Pansy and Greengrass are missing. In general, the table doesn’t look as full as it usually does. Did they finish eating or were they too afraid to come to dinner? Those present keep to themselves, picking at their food and sneering at anyone who stares their way for too long. Typical Slytherin behavior … not that it’s become a surprise at this point. Only their prickly personalities are saving them from being hexed into next week, most likely.

Turning around, I'm about to pose another question when I lock eyes with someone at the Gryffindor table. Oliver Cobalt. It's plain as day that he caught me glancing at the Slytherin table. After today's episode, there is no doubt in my mind that he's forming dark suspicions about me. Looking away, I fill my plate with food I have no intention of eating, but it gives me a reason to avoid his stare.

“It’s truly unfair, these prejudices. Ending the war was supposed to offer a more optimistic future in which we aren’t constantly at one another’s throats for things we cannot control. What happened to promises of understanding and kindness? Of—”

Ezra places a hand on top of Elenora's, the one that's clenching her fork in a death grip. The touch draws her attention toward him. "Leave it to McGonagall. She's the headmaster and right now, she has more of an idea of how to handle this than us."

"But we can't just—"

"If you do something, _anything_ , you'll be perceived as a threat, too. Then what will happen to _you_?"

Elenora pulls her hand back, cheeks red. "So what am I supposed to do? Sit back and watch another battle take place before our eyes? Can we really turn a blind eye to _torture_?"

A loud bang causes us to jump, along with a few Ravenclaws from nearby. Damian glares across the table at Elenora, a look so fierce and unlike him that I feel the urge to pull away. "Do you not understand they are evil? They tortured and killed friends, family members, innocent people! And you want to help them escape a punishment they deserve?"

"You can't honestly believe—"

"I do. They shouldn't be here. _None_ of them should be allowed back here. A year ago, they were willing to let us all die. I bet they _still_ wouldn't bat an eye if any of us were killed. We don't matter to them."

"It's not fair to judge without giving them a chance to prove themselves, seeing as the Minist—"

"You know what's not fair?" Damian leans halfway across the desk, eyes locked on Elenora's in a death grip. There's almost a half-crazed look on his face and my heart breaks because I know he's grieving. "We were bullied by them. We were _afraid_ of them. We never knew how far they would take it. And what was the purpose of enduring that abuse for _years?_ Because of the blood that runs through our veins."

"It's not that simple."

Damian ignores her. "They're hypocrites to play the victim, to be in the position they put us in. If things were different, if they could've put aside their differences and fought _with_ us, then maybe our losses wouldn't be so great."

Damian storms from the dining hall, shoving the wooden doors open and quickly disappearing from view. None of us chase after him, but we don't say a word for the rest of dinner, either.

***

Later that evening, I make do with a copy of the Daily Prophet that's been left behind in the lounge. Elenora curls up on the love seat, hair wet from a recent shower and wearing a silky PJ set that would surely have any staff member dying of shock. As she runs a comb through her hair, she spends her time ranting about Damian.

"—suggest that none of us have _suffered_. Of course, we _all_ have. I only meant to suggest the Ministry are thoroughly conducting their investigations and if they think it's safe for them to return to Hogwarts, then—"

"That's the point," I say, flipping through the Daily Prophet. "They aren't sure. Sending them here is a trial like Pansy said."

"Well, I-yes, I know that. We deduced as much on the train but what I mean to say is that we can't turn against one another. If we do, then-well ... then the war isn't really over, is it?" She finally huffs and throws down her comb, crossing her arms over her chest. The word "war" gathers the attention of those nearby and Elenora glares at them. "Mind your own business, will you?" Startled, they turn away but not without the occasional glance thrown in our direction. I'm too busy flipping through pages to notice _or_ care. Of course, my search is probably fruitless. The article could've been written days ago, in which case I have no chance in—

"Aha!"

There's a haggard-looking photo of Dolohov at his trial. Strands of greasy hair cling to his hollow features, making it seem as though he hasn't eaten in days. Considering the situation he's in, maybe he hasn't eaten anything for fear it's laced with poison or _Veritaserum_. Despite his beaten-down appearance, his eyes haven't lost that hard glint that promises revenge.

"What are you looking for, anyway?" Elenora asks, shifting closer on the couch to where I'm sitting in a single armchair with the paper spread across my lap. She gathers her hair to the side so she can read over my shoulder.

"Finch mentioned something about Dolohov in class today that I wanted to read up on. See what she was on about and all."

"Agatha Finch?" Her face scrunches up in distaste. "Which article?"

I tilt the paper in her direction so she can see. She might've gasped or made some sort of exclamation, but I'm too absorbed by the article to say for sure.

> "On August 25th, 1999, Antonin Dolohov appears before the Wizard Tribunal for a series of crimes which include his involvement with the Dark Lord.
> 
> There is little doubt in anyone's minds that Dolohov is guilty of all charges he's been accused of (of which there are far too many to list) but a trial is required for a 'fair' judgment to be made. Further, the tribunal hopes Dolohov will come to regret his choices (again, too many to list) and give up the names of those involved or aware of the Dark Lord's schemes in exchange for a lighter sentence. Of course, nothing went as the Tribunal had planned.
> 
> While Dolohov accepts all accounts made against him, he refuses to admit to any guilt or wrongdoing. When asked to give the names of those responsible for doing unspeakable acts in the name of the Dark Lord, Dolohov spits at the audience and delivers a chilling threat that silences the room.
> 
> 'Fools! All of you, fools! The war has not ended with the Dark Lord's death. You don't think he planned for his own demise?'
> 
> 'Of course not," Rufus Scrimgeour, head of the Minister of Magic, scoffs. "The Dark Lord did not believe he _could_ or _would_ die.'
> 
> 'The Dark Lord may be dead, but he has not fallen. He lives on through us and we are still here, working to bring his notions of a pureblood society into fruition.'
> 
> 'There's no chance of that,' Mr. Pigley promises, one of those seated on the tribunal. 'We've learned from our past ignorances and have taken all the measures necessary to prevent any further revival of Death Eaters. All your friends have been killed, sent to Azkaban, or placed under heavy house arrest. Your best interests now are to--'
> 
> Mr. Pigley is interrupted by Dolohov's scathing laughter. 'Go ahead and kill me. Place me in Azkaban with the others, but things have already been set in motion and cannot be undone. You will all be tortured and slaughtered. Potter, his friends, and their families will be hunted down and suffer _terribly_ before they're killed. The rest will help bring forth the New World under the Dark Lord's—'
> 
> The sound of a gavel breaks through the uproar of cacophony as Dolohov's words create disruption among the audience. Scrimgeour calls for order. 'You have no proof of any of this. There is no one left to carry forward the Dark Lord's plans. We have—-'
> 
> Dolohov smirks from beneath his mess of shaggy, greasy black hair. There's a cold, cruel shine in them as he stares down at Scrimgeour. 'Your peace is coming to an end, _Minister_. Better enjoy it until the Marked One snatches it.'
> 
> 'The Marked One?'
> 
> 'Suitable, isn't it?' Dolohov drawls, casually leaning back in his seat as though his trial was merely a formal dinner. 'You have your _Chosen One_ and we have our _Marked One_. Marked in secrecy by our Dark Lord with something akin to a teardrop to symbolize the sorrow and suffering they will inflict on those who decide to fight against us in the true final battle. God Speed Minister. You and many others will perish before you get to witness the brilliance of the New World Order.'
> 
> The crowd loses control and the gavel does nothing to bring order to the room. As Dolohov is pulled from the room by guards, cackling maniacally as he's led back to the dungeons, Scrimgeour proclaims Dolohov's sentence: 'A public execution to take place on September 4th, 1999. Dolohov has been found guilty of all charges' (again, a list much too long to reiterate) 'and is found guilty of being dangerous to the public. All those in favor say "aye".'
> 
> 'Aye.'
> 
> Subscribe to the Daily Prophet to be given immediate updates on the ongoing investigation of those in alignment with the Dark Lord or under suspicion for carrying out dangerous acts in his name."

Elenora sighs heavily. Having moved from the couch to perch on the edge of the armchair to read over my shoulder, she now rests her head on my shoulder. "It's never going to end, is it?"

I wrap an arm around her shoulders and wish I can reassure her, but the truth is, even I'm beginning to believe there will never be an end to this conflict. Peace feels impossible to find. "He's been locked up all this time and tortured for information. More than likely he's gone insane and all of this is nonsensical ramblings of a madman the Prophet is glorifying to up their profits."

Elenora hums. "The Prophet is hardly reliable, especially with Skeeter still writing for them. Besides, Dolohov's always been a little ... dramatic, hasn't he?"

I raise a brow. "Yes, because we're third cousins and host annual tea parties in the garden. Who the hell knows what Dolohov is like? If this is anything to go by he's a complete git who's _even more_ of a git now his sanity's been messed with. If anything, this is his last-ditch attempt to save his own hide."

Except, if he were trying to save his own hide then why not give up the names of those guilty? As my eyes scan through Dolohov's last words, a cold chill settles on my body like a blanket. I had a feeling Death Eaters were communicating with one another through their trials, and this proved my theory correct. A teardrop mark. I subconsciously brush my fingers across my shoulder, disrupting Elenora's relaxed form. She pulls back with a frown.

"What is it?"

"Your head is causing my shoulder to cramp up."

Snorting, she returns to her side of the couch and picks up her comb, gingerly running it through her hair again and wincing when it catches on a tangle. "Where do you think we'd be if the Dark Lord won and Potter truly did die?"

The question startles me and I'm not quite sure how to answer, which is maybe why I say, "Dead."

She lifts her head to glance at me curiously. "What makes you say that?"

I shrug. "A few reasons, I guess. Mostly ... I don't know, I guess I never imagined people like us would fit into his plans."

"That's true. He might've killed everyone outright and left his followers to live. Though I'd like to think he'd have some kind of ...."

"Sympathy?" I supply, snorting at the thought.

"Lenience," she explains. "Maybe he'd let some of us live, the ones he felt he could turn to his side or manipulate into submission."

"And that's more bearable than death?"

"At least we'd be alive. We'd have a fighting chance to change things if they'd gone awry. Potter's friends on the other hand ... they'd be given no options." She nods to the paper in my lap. "Dolohov's got one thing right. They'd be hunted to the ends of the earth and killed for aiding him."

"No leniency for them?" I joke.

Elenora's surprisingly serious when she says, "No. They would rebel at every chance. If there was even a shred of hope for people, they would never fully submit to the Dark Lord's rule. We, on the other hand, would make a pretty good team." The flames from the fire make her eyes sparkle with excitement.

"It's a wonder your optimism landed you in Ravenclaw rather than Gryffindor."

"I'd like to consider myself much more rational than those idiots who run headlong into a problem and pray the outcome turns out better than the consequences."

"You're probably—ah, Merlin! What time is it?" I hop up, startling Elenora.

"Nearly one in the morning, why? There's never homework on the first—-" she cuts herself off when she catches onto my smirk. "Uh oh, what are you up to?"

Backing toward the doors, I say: "I'm getting myself what I've been missing out on for the past year or so."

Shaking her head, she says, "Don't get caught. I'm not going to sympathize with whatever cruel punishment McGonagall will come up with should she catch wind of whatever ... shenanigans you're about to get up to." She moves to the armchair and snatches the newspaper that fell when I stood. "Mind if I borrow this?"

"Not at all," I say, rushing from the room.

***

The door to the Greenhouse is unlocked. When I step inside, I use a password-locking spell to ensure no one else can enter. As the door clicks shut, Matthias' head shoots up in my direction from where he's leaning against a metal table covered in a variety of plants. Luckily the non-magical kind or he'd be bitten, stung, or potentially dead by now. Startled, he removes his hands from his.…

"Getting started without me, are you?" I tease, stalking toward him slowly. Satisfaction blooms in my stomach as I see his cheeks burn with a rosy tinge.

Matthias smiles nervously, running a hand through his honey curls that take on a silver-gold sheen under the moonlight. "You _did_ threaten a very specific body part of mine. When you didn't show up on time, I thought you were making good on it."

"Don't worry, Matthias," I say, sliding my arms around his neck. "Your precious family jewels are safe." Before more can be said, I've pressed my lips to his, basking in the gentle pressure and the minty taste of his mouth. Shortly after, his arms wrap around me and pull me into his body. The kiss deepens and I lose myself in the feeling.

***

I've forgotten how utterly romantic the greenhouse can be. Our robes are spread out beneath us on the ground and we're wrapped up in one another staring up at the stars and watching the moon slowly glide across the night sky, soon to be replaced by the sun and the chirp of morning birds. Right now it's utterly quiet. Just the sound of our breathing. No animals or the rustling of wind. For the moment, we're frozen in time, carving out this little space just for ourselves.

My eyes flutter shut as Matthias' fingers sift through my hair, working out the tangles. It's the most at peace I've felt in a while. Everything that's been weighing down on my mind has disappeared for the time being and for once, I notice how relaxed my body feels when it's not coiled with tension and anxieties.

It makes me wonder if Hogwarts can ever become this. An escape. A distraction from all the things I don't want to think about like Death Eaters, the Dark Lord, and the tensions running high in the school halls. As soon as I think about it, I know it can't ever happen. Not when there's so much hate in everyone's hearts. Not when revenge is more important than peace.

My fingers trace over the bronzed, toned skin of Matthias' torso. I feel the rise and fall of his breath, the steady rhythm of his beating heart, and the heat emanating from his skin like a crackling fire.

"Still worried about those precious jewels?" I ask, breaking the silence.

He snorts. "You're a firecracker, Poppy. Unpredictable, wild, dangerous. It's hard to know what you're going to do."

A feral smile glides across my face. "As much as I appreciate your charming attempt at flattery—-however accurate it may be—-you're only saying that because I just gave you the best night of your life."

"While that is also very true, I meant it. You know that's how I've always felt about you." His voice turns soft and I shift uncomfortably.

"Even if I've led you astray from the Gryffindor golden rule of being a goody-two-shoes?"

He chuckles. "Oh, you think we're the golden ones, do you? Like Potter and his friends managed to save the wizarding world without breaking a few rules?"

It's as though a bucket of cold water has been dumped on me. Everything always comes back to them, doesn’t it? Sometimes it feels the whole war revolved around Voldemort and Harry Potter—which, in a way, it did. And yet, they weren’t the only ones to suffer. Those who fought in that war didn’t fight for Harry or for The Dark Lord, even. Whatever drove people to take part, it all boils down to their vision of the world they want to live in. More took place than the adventures the golden trio embarked on to defeat the Dark Lord and his followers.

What’s even more sickening is the pride and admiration on Matthias’ face. Pride of being part of the winning team under the golden banner of Gryffindor and admiration for three people who have never—and probably never _will_ —spare him a moment of their time. He regards them as heroes like much of wizarding society like the three of them singlehandedly took down The Dark Lord and his followers. Not like it was a team effort. Not like they shared in some of the same prejudices taking place in these same corridors. Elenora is right, the Final Battle was meant to create understanding and put an end to age-old tensions. Instead, things feel as one-sided as ever.

This is why the houses should be abolished. Tear down the history of bad blood and force one another to see themselves as nothing but human. Make it impossible for them to set themselves apart from anyone except those who wear the same colored clothing. Enforce understanding where there wasn’t any in the past. Take away any excuse a person may come up with to justify their hate. It might take time, but…

Reaching for my clothes, I pull on my jumper before searching for the rest spread across the ground.

"What? What did I say?" he asks, sitting up with a crease between his brows as he watches me scramble for my clothes.

"Bloody Potter and his friends. Can't seem to go a minute without hearing their names or how great they are. Bloody sick of it, I am."

Matthias only watches as I snatch up my clothes and spell them clean before pulling them on in a rush. "What have you got against Potter?"

"Nothing," I bite out, striding back to Matthias to grab my robe. Only, when I bend down to grab it he tugs on my wrist and pulls me on top of him. We go sprawling across the ground and the weight of my body briefly knocks the air from his lungs. When it returns, he chuckles in amusement before his eyes flicker up to stare at me with a seriousness I'm unused to seeing on his face.

Fingers brush the hair from my face, tucking them behind my ears before wrapping his arms around my waist to prevent me from getting to my feet the second I start to wiggle in discomfort.

"Seems like something," he pushes and I glare in response. "But we don't need to bring Potter into this, do we? We're good enough company." And then his lips are back on mine, distracting me. He's good at it. All it takes is a slight touch, his tongue prodding mine, the smooth velvet of his fingers brushing against my skin, moving upwards toward—

I jerk back. Matthias groans. I rest my head against his chest, breathing heavily. "Don't," I say, breathlessly. "He's not here. The war's over and he isn't here." My voice cracks slightly and my eyes burn with the threat of tears.

His fingers are back in my hair. Scratching, massaging, working out the mess going on inside my mind. "Potter will always be talked about—-for what he's done ... what he's lost."

Potter's not the one I'm speaking about. "We've all lost something."

"We have," he concedes. "But not anymore." He pulls at a few strands of my hair, brushing at my scalp in a way that tickles. "We're safe now ... for the most part."

My mind drifts to Dolohov's trial, of the promise of more bloodshed. "You don't really believe Dolohov, do you? He's probably just grasping at straws."

Matthias' hands still in my hair. "What? Dolohov? No, I was thinking about the Slytherins being allowed to come back to school."

"You want them gone, too?"

"Slytherins are known to breed volatile, dangerous people. They're rotten, the whole lot of them. None of them should be allowed to stay when sorted into that house."

Feeling sick, I roll off him and sit up, surprised when he lets me without a fight. My hands shake in my lap. I breathe slowly through my nose to staunch off nausea. The sights and sounds of the war begin to rise full throttle in my mind. "Not every Slytherin is tainted with darkness."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, just what I said," I snap, getting up and shaking off my robe in the process. I don't bother with a spell, just shrug it on.

"Why do you look so guilty, then?" There’s no accusation in his voice, only genuine curiosity. For some reason, it makes my blood heat ten times hotter beneath my skin until I’m at a serious risk of passing out or having a stroke.

"I _don't_. I'm sick of everyone's prejudice, is all. Not every Slytherin is born to be a psychopathic killer. A lot of them, in fact, had no option but one open to them because of their parents."

"Bullocks," he snorts.

"What do you know? Have you actually bothered to have a conversation with them that doesn't consist of tossing low-grade insults at one another?"

Matthias goes silent, staring at me, scrutinizing. He's leaning back on his forearms, the epitome of calm but puzzled.

I shift on my feet, the heat flooding out of me and leaving me freezing despite the robe draped over me. "What?"

It takes him a moment to speak, looking as though he’s mulling over his words as he debates whether they’re worth saying. Yet, he’s still got the look of puzzlement on his face like he’s trying to figure out a difficult equation. My mind replays the conversation, trying to discover what’s caused such a look of consternation when he finally says, "You're in love with one of them." And I see it in his face that he's completely convinced I’ve fallen for a Slytherin, a Pureblood, the enemy according to him. While there’s no anger on his face, I feel the burn of accusation like a physical slap to the face.

I huff out a dry laugh. "Bloody insane, you are. Someone shows an ounce of sympathy and it's bloody _love_ , is it? What does that make us, then? _Married_?" The word spits from my mouth like it's dirty, and it might as well be. To accuse me of something so boldly with no basis is just preposterous, is what it is. I stand here under his judgment like a bug under a microscope, some bloody experiment that has gone terribly wrong after we just—just…

Vomit rises hot and quick in my throat, burning as I swallow it down. Anything I say now will only be an affirmation of his claim. There’s nothing to do now but tuck tail and run. Hope he keeps his suspicions to himself otherwise—otherwise, I’ll be a target to cruel and unjustifiable magic like Pansy, won’t I?

Matthias hasn’t moved, nor has he looked away from me. He just lies there and I hope he can see the disgust I have for him across my face in clear writing. For years I’ve fallen for the quirky, charming Gryffindor who’s quieted the noise in my head and gave me a chance to escape the pressures of school and society and home. We’ve created a safe place for ourselves when we’re together and now all of that’s finished quicker than a disapparition spell.

There's no way I'd end up with him, a Gryffindor, someone who believes there's only one side of the line you can be on. The _good_ one. Tunnel vision, that's what this is. Only know what's right in front of them, these Gryffindors. Can't see anything else. Won't _allow_ themselves to see anything else. Why?

Why? Why? _Why?_

I think about asking him. The desire to know where this bloody ignorance stems from nearly drives me mad. Maybe the Gryffindors are damaged, too. So afraid of having to judge their own actions, of having to admit they've done bad things too. Afraid of being unable to separate their face from a Slytherin's. Maybe that scares them. Maybe that's what standing firmly on the 'good' side of the line saves them from. From being like everyone else. But we all bleed the same blood and did bad things for the sake of survival.

"We're no better than anyone else."

"What's that to mean?"

"You Gryffindors pride yourselves on being so bloody righteous—-about everything!—-you forget that everyone makes mistakes and deserves a second chance."

Matthias jolts into a seated position so quickly it causes me to stumble back a half-step. There is such ferocious rage in those eyes, such a burning hatred that has me gripping my wand tightly in my robe pocket. Readying myself for a fight that doesn't come.

"When one of those bloody bastards attacks you, tortures you, kills off your friends and family in cold blood because you're not worth a scrap of dirt beneath their shoes, it's easy to feel sorry for them. Easy to believe they're not the bad guys, the villains. You've never had to look one of them in the eyes and see not a shred of humanity within them."

"Fuck you," I whisper. "I never took you as—"

"Stupid?" I seethe.

"If I'm in love with a psychotic, murderous, _merciless_ Death Eater, then why would I be here with _you_?"

The room goes silent as Matthias tilts his head to the side, curious. "I never said anything about a Death Eater."

"No," I agree, shakily. "You only implied as much."

The look he gives me causes something to simmer beneath my skin and I have to sweep myself out of the Greenhouse with the little dignity I have left before I do something—or _say_ —anything else that will damn me even further. Only when I reach the castle do I lean over and heave the night's dinner into the bushes. Minutes later, I shakily scrub the back of my hand against my mouth and trudge back to my dorms, wondering if tomorrow I will find myself on the end of an unforgivable, or worse. I’ve only damned myself to hell, I have. This is what happens when we get too close to people, we let more slip than what we intend and find ourselves on the end of their wand—or someone else’s—and we rarely come back from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is giving my fanfic a shot. This is my first Harry Potter fanfiction and I'm super intimidated to be here haha. There is so much knowledge out there on this series, but I still struggle with keeping it as accurate as possible. I have decided to add new characters to the story, but I promise the originals will make an appearance. I wanted to try something different and I hope it doesn't take away from the magic of Hogwarts and the reasons why the Harry Potter series are loved by so many. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking through it thus far!


	4. Confrontation

The next morning, The Daily Prophet lands next to my breakfast with a loud bang that catches nearby attention. Elenora raises a brow as she stirs honey in her morning tea while Damian and Ezra are too busy stuffing eggs and bacon into their mouths to be startled by the noise. My fingers grab the edges of the paper and pull it toward me before anyone can snatch it for themselves. Not that I expect anyone to with the trials dying down and life slowly returning to an almost normal routine. There's no reason to have an interest in the news anymore, but I worry with the recent capture of a well-known Death Eater will create another rise in interest.

Unlike last night, there's no need to flip through pages as the most important article takes center stage on the front. The title stands out in its trademark thick, black lettering. " **The Carrows finally captured by Potter and fellow Aurors."**

I nearly drop the paper in surprise but manage to save it from my bowl of hot cereal. My eyes scan the paper, noticing there's a small interview with Harry Potter by Fungus Corwell who congratulates him on the successful capture of the long-wanted Death Eaters.

Figures. Even when he's not at school he manages to be at the center of attention.

When asked to comment on Dolohov's thinly veiled threat against the golden trio as well as his promise of another battle to come, Potter refuses to answer.

The rest of the article brags about how the Ministry's finally cracking down on the rest of the Dark Lord's followers and their hope to gather all the information they need to bring this dark chapter in Wizarding history to a close. Clearly, this is an attempt to dismiss Dolohov's claims and regain a semblance of safety in Wizard society.

I don't fail to notice how there is no mention of where the Carrows have been all this time, how they evaded detection and capture for so long, and how they managed to be found. There's not even a mention of their trial date or where they're being held in the meantime. In fact, there's very little information at all on the Carrows except for their capture.

Is The Prophet willingly withholding information to ensure the 'safety' of the Carrows from any corrupt witches and wizards who may try and rescue them, despite the fact the Ministry has never viewed that as a concern with the other Death Eaters? Or—-scarily enough—-is it possible they truly have no information to report on, suggesting even they are left in the dark about what measures are being taken place with the Carrows? The last thought worries me. If things are starting to be hushed up, then there's information the Ministry doesn't want the rest of society to know. Does this mean Dolohov is right and something is happening in the background the rest of us are not aware of?

But that can't be right. If something is taking place then the Ministry or the Aurors or someone would have to have caught on by now. There's no way a secret group or a series of individuals are able to take out opponents without it raising red flags all over the place. Besides, with the pureblood elitists locked away or killed for their crimes, who is left to fight on the Dark Lord's behalf?

My fingers rub against the mark on my shoulder, hating the way it feels as though an electrical fire is brewing just beneath the skin. The Dark Lord himself gave it to me in a fit of rage, branding me in a way he never did with his other followers. And I wonder if I do have a part in what's to come that even I don't know anything about it. That is, _if_ Dolohov is to be believed about a revival of elitist notions.

The answers I'm looking for are in these papers, I'm sure of it. All that time spent holed up in St. Mungo's over the summer, drunk off sleeping draughts and sneaking bottles of whiskey into my room, I could've spent reading the paper and catching onto these little clues.

Before class, I must go see Madame Pince about those papers and instill within her that they are of the utmost importance. If she passes this on to McGonagall, then so be it. A student can't be faulted for wanting to catch up with the news. Besides, it will give me a chance to search for other clues of the subtle sort. The sudden death of a tribunal member. An accidental floo eruption kills a couple of wizards and leaves others injured. Small, little tragedies that people won't question and shortly forget.

Perhaps I'm just fishing for something that's not there. Maybe like the rest of these reporters, I'm restless with the inactivity of the Wizarding world now that The Final Battle and the events leading up to it are over and done with. Deep down, I know I'm not crazy. Something is taking place right under our noses and if we're not careful, it's going to explode right in front of our faces without giving us the time to react.

Sighing, I drop the paper on the table and make sure it's face down. After last night, there's no need to start up any unnecessary conversations about the war. Ever since our return to school, it seems that's the only topic we manage to focus on. If Damian's frenzy for eating is anything to go by, today is a better day, there's no need to ruin that with talk of the war.

I reach for my cup of tea, now gone cold, and make a face at its bitter taste. Elenora smirks from across the table and slides the cup of honey across the table. A quick spell heats the cup again and I add a few drops of honey to it along with a touch of sugar. It's not better, but it's not much worse, either.

Damien suddenly gets to his feet, drawing our attention. "I'm heading out. I might be late to dinner if you don't see me before then."

"Out where?" Elenora asks curiously, sipping on her tea.

"Quidditch tryouts."

Ezra hops to his feet. "Count me in."

Damian sputters. "It's too late!"

"It's the second day of school," Elenora protests.

"Me on a broom?" Ezra says. "Are you kidding? I'm only going for entertainment. Watching you get a bludger to the head is a sight I don't want to miss."

"Oi!" he protests. "I'm glad the thought of my suffering cheers you up. Way to be supportive mate."

"Can we join?" Elenora teases. "If the thought is funny enough, I imagine seeing it happen with my own eyes will be a memory to cherish."

I laugh at how unimpressed Damian looks. "Five quid on it being Flint that hits him with the bludger." "Oi, very funny," he snaps. "At least make it ten."

I shrug. "Ten it is. Any takers?"

Ezra takes it one further. "I bet twenty he hits someone else with the bludger on accident."

Damian huffs. "You're all rotten, the lot of you. I'm taking this seriously, you know? And when I make the team, you'll be eating your words." We watch him storm off. Ezra shoves the last of his pastry into his mouth, chugging it down with coffee, and then chases after his friend.

Even after they're gone my eyes linger on the door. After a tense start, it's good to see Damian smiling and joking around like his goofy self. His moods can be quite up and down, but usually, he tries to keep things as light as possible. "It's good to see him so happy. What a contrast from last night."

Elenora picks at the pastry on her plate, though she doesn't eat it. "It is, isn't it? Apparently, Ezra sat him down for a good long chat in their dorms. While it led to quite the argument, it apparently did a whole lot of good. And I'm sure Quidditch will help give him an outlet for whatever can't be resolved through good conversation."

"You're probably right," I muse, chewing thoughtfully on a slice of toast. "It'll be a good distraction, anyway. Though I never knew he was interested in playing."

"Ezra said he's thought about it for a while but never gave it any credit. There was always so much going on, you know? This year it's really only our N.E.W.T.S we have to worry about. Well, them too." And she nods toward where the Slytherins are sitting behind me. "After speaking with Ezra, let's hope he finds himself in a much better mood about it."

"Unless he really does get hit with a bludger, then he won't be in such a great mood, will he?" I laugh gently, already picturing it.

"Or he hits someone else."

We snicker.

"What's so funny Montgomery? Care to share what you can find to laugh about when we're in the middle of another war? Couldn't possibly have anything to do with Pansy Parkinson, since you're so chummy with the enemy."

Elenora and I turn to see Cobalt surrounded by two buddies of his making their way towards us with ugly sneers on their faces. The three of them remind me of another trio that enjoyed making their rounds about the school, terrorizing and bullying students to their delight. Except, Cobalt has nothing on Draco Malfoy and while the latter was full of malicious cruelty, Cobalt actually sees himself as fighting for the greater good.

What's even more hilarious is the way Cobalt's slicked back his dark brown hair in a similar fashion, emphasizing his pug-like face. The two friends behind him are so tall and thin, it wouldn't be a surprise should a slight wind knock them off their feet. One even has glasses two sizes too big for his face and has to keep pushing them up with his finger. The way his eyes wander around tells me they aren't working very well. Or he's not interested in being here.

Rolling my eyes, I say: "News flash Cobalt, the war's over. Our only enemies remain outside these walls and most are dead, locked up, or are currently being hunted down. Whatever it is you think the Slytherins are guilty of, you're wrong. Otherwise, they never would've been let back through these doors at the risk of harming other students."

"And if they are guilty of something," Elenora pipes up in an unimpressed drawl, "McGonagall will find out. Besides, if they are guilty of reviving pureblooded notions, surely that would be more important than school, don't you think?"

Cobalt's face turns a deep, scarlet red. "You don't know what you're talking about. It's all about gaining recruits and once they have, Hogwarts will be hit first. Don't you get it? What's a better way of starting off a revival than attacking the place that resulted in their leader's death?"

Though that snarl never leaves his face, there's an underlying tone of desperation. Cobalt believes in his theory, but he's also afraid of it. And I begin to realize The Final Battle has affected us in more ways than we thought possible. While some of us are traumatized, anxious, and suffering heavily from nightmares, others are haunted by a perpetual fear and paranoia over events they cannot control.

"Where were you?" I ask suddenly, stunning the anger right off the faces of the young trio. "When The Final Battle occurred, where were you?"

Cobalt shifts on his feet, but it's one of his friends who answer, the one with the glasses. "We were supposed to be in the dining hall where McGonagall put up protection spells ... but we wanted to help."

"Wow," Elenora says, "that's badass."

The three boys blush and shift awkwardly under Elenora's unintentional praise. I shoot her a glare, knowing the last thing we should do is pat them on the back for putting their lives at risk, but she only shrugs and sips at her tea.

"How'd you fight? You were only second years."

At this, Cobalt sticks his nose in the air and proudly declares, "My parents taught me to fight during Christmas and summer breaks, and then I taught these two. We actually managed to hold our own against a few of the Death Eaters. Wasn't all that hard, really."

"Except for Calvin who-"

"Shut up!" Cobalt snaps, turning to the stick kid that's remained silent all this time. I notice this one's slightly taller than the two and much shyer as he immediately ducks his head and brushes the toe of his shoe against the ground, having been outright scolded.

Elenora frowns as she places her tea on the table. "Who's Calvin?"

"None of your business!" Cobalt fumes, nearly turning purple in the face.

"One of our friends who didn't make it," glasses admits quietly, then stumbles backward to avoid Cobalt's angry slap.

Cobalt opens his mouth, ready to shout a series of insults no doubt. Before he can, he's interrupted by a familiar drawl only a Slytherin can possess. "You third years love to pretend you know everything about the war, despite being too young and clearly lacking the political knowledge. Now if you can go pester someone your own age who worships your opinions as much as you do, that would be amazing." Finch stands behind the three boys with a look of utter contempt on her face. "Run along now, the adults have things to discuss."

At this point, Cobalt is bloody livid. I sit with rapt attention, waiting to see if his head will blow. Instead, his eyes flicker between me and the Slytherin. "Figures a Slytherin will come to your rescue when you're so sympathetic to the lot of them. Makes me wonder where your loyalties lie."

"Don't think we haven't been watching you eyeing the Slytherin table every chance you get," glasses speaks up.

"Or the concern you showed Parkinson," the shy one adds, finally mustering up the courage to say something. Or showing his attempt to redeem himself for his small slip up. "Sounds like you have secrets of your own."

Elenora's scathing laugh startles us all. "You forget Ravenclaw's are known for their intellect. If we were to be hiding secrets, you'd never discover them."

"And Slytherins are cunning. We know a million ways to manipulate our enemies into falling for dangerous, life-threatening traps with little effort. Unless you want a personal demonstration, I suggest you get lost. Now."

Knowing it's a lost fight, Cobalt stalks off with his friends nipping at his heels. Finch takes a seat next to me at the Ravenclaw table, drawing more attention to us from the remaining students in the dining hall. It doesn't escape my notice the way they lean closer to one another and whisper into their friends' ears. No doubt this will cause more rumors to fly brazenly throughout the corridors.

Flicking her pin-straight hair over her shoulders, Finch reaches for an apple on the table—-green, of course—-with a perfectly manicured hand. She rubs the skin on her robes before taking a crunchy bite out of the surface.

"At the risk of sounding rude, why are you here?" Elenora prods, fingering the cutlery beside her empty plate.

Swallowing her bite, Finch says, "Not to play hero to whatever mess Montgomery managed to get herself in."

I raise a brow. "Well, the only other option to playing hero is you're madly in love with me."

Elenora chokes on air as Finch huffs a breathy, "You wish."

"Of course, you'd have to have emotions. So … why _are_ you here?"

"Slytherin not fun enough for you?" Elenora guesses nonchalantly. From anyone else, her tone would've come off as mocking and cruel considering we are speaking with a Slytherin. With her brow quirked and chin propped in hand, Elenora comes off as casually interested in why Finch has decided to grace us with her unwanted presence.

She shrugs. "I can't say it's any different than what we've come to expect. Though it sure keeps things interesting ... having dodge tripping jinxes and ward off hexes."

"Such a Slytherin response. None of you are capable of feeling anything other than amusement at your own—"

"Like you would know anything."

"I know plenty."

"Oh please, your perspective of things are as skewed as everyone else's. Would almost think you a Gryffindor with that high and mighty attitude."

Elenora raises a skeptical brow. "Like a Slytherin's perspective is the only one which matters? Sounds prejudiced to me."

"No more than anyone else, these days." She takes another bite of her apple, eyes challenging Elenora to disagree.

She doesn't rise to the bait. Rather, she grabs her books and the newspaper before standing. When she speaks next, it's to me and not Agatha. "Don't make a habit of this, Poppy. You don't need the publicity."

"About time," Finch huffs when Elenora heads off to her first class of the day, head high and refusing to say anything more on the matter. I glare daggers at her back for leaving me here on my own and implying I actually _want_ to associate with Finch. Being in her presence is the same as being around a squealing Mandrake.

"You're doing a poor job of proving you're not in love with me, Agatha Finch."

She waves a hand dismissively. "So not why I'm here. McGonagall asked me to bring you to her office. There are things the two of you need to discuss, apparently." Catching sight of my face, she laughs. "Why so pale, Penelope? It's not like you've got things to hide, do you?" There's a wicked gleam in her eyes that says she's absolutely sure I'm hiding something and she's willing to put whatever effort is necessary into finding out what.

Changing topics, I ask: "Why'd she ask you of all people to come and fetch me? Perhaps you were just there yourself?"

Finch's eyes darken considerably when she regards me. "It doesn't take a genius to know you'll be at breakfast and I was summoned before I could have mine. Please Montgomery, I'd rather eat in peace than speak to your ugly face if it can be helped."

I place my hands over my heart. "How you wound my fragile ego." Finch rolls her eyes. "She didn't specifically say why she wanted to see me, did she?"

"Merlin! You're going to see the lady, ask her then!" Finch rises and brushes imaginary crumbs from her plaid green skirt and leaves the core of her apple on the table. "Speaking of conversations, I think ours here is done. Besides, I have more important things to attend to."

"Wait, you're not coming?" It's the anxiety talking, just bursting from my mouth without giving my brain the time to catch up. I almost blush with shame, but I hold my head high like it's a serious question. In a way, it is. With Finch providing commentary on the way to McGonagall's office, there's no chance for me to over think or panic about why she wants to see me.

Finch pauses long enough to toss her golden hair back and laugh. "She asked for you, not me. Besides, you can walk there yourself, can't you? We've only been away a year. Surely, you still remember your way around school?"

I watch her walk away, taking the few moments alone to compose myself. Why does McGonagall want to see me? Does it have to do with the incident from Pansy yesterday? Was she wanting to know what my role in it was or whether I knew the person who used the unforgivable? Knowing Pansy, she's refused to let that little piece of information slip.

Other possibilities run through my mind. Maybe she knows why I've ended up at St. Mungo's for months or Cobalt's let his suspicions run wild to her. It's impossible to know what to expect from this meeting. There's no way to prepare for whatever question she asks and if I sit here any longer musing over it, she'll come for me herself and that won't look good, either.

I rise on unsteady legs and make my way out of the dining hall. Though I keep my head down, my eyes scan those who are still eating breakfast at their tables. None of them are looking my way, but that doesn't mean someone hasn't overheard Finch's message to me and passed it onto someone else.

As I head to McGonagall's office, I try to convince myself not to care what other people think. Most likely, Matthias and I were spotted at the Greenhouse having a secret rendezvous after hours. After failing to put on a silencing charm and the argument we had, it's no wonder someone patrolling the grounds heard us.

If it's the greenhouse McGonagall wants to speak with me about, then Matthias would be called to her office as well. When I arrived at the dining hall, I didn't see him which means it's entirely likely that's what she's wanting to discuss. I try not to get my hopes up, considering his lack of presence in her office might throw me off.

When I reach her door, I hesitate before knocking firmly. Moments later, the door creaks open and I step inside. There's a crackling fire off to the left that has made the room significantly warmer than the corridors I've left behind. Portraits line every available wall space of previous headmasters and staff of Hogwarts. It's not as cozy as the previous office Dumbledore resided in, but it's cozy enough with its mini living area consisting of a love seat and armchair divided by a circular oak table.

McGonagall's desk occupies the back half of the room where she's busy scribbling across a piece of parchment. "Please have a seat, Miss Montgomery." She gestures with a free hand to the two chairs in front of her desk.

As she finishes with her letter, I take a seat in front of her and watch as she folds it in three, sticking it into an envelope and adding it to the alarmingly high pile of letters she's already written. I do my best no to fidget or let my eyes wander, but to focus on the headmistress.

"Sorry to pull you away from your breakfast. This shouldn't take long and then you'll be able to head to class. I was hoping to discuss a few situations that have come to my attention, namely that of the papers you've requested from Madam Pince. I'm sure you've had time enough to come up with an excuse, but if you don't mind I would like to hear the truth behind this odd request."

Cautiously, I say: “I didn’t realize it was … an issue to request a read of the paper.”

McGonagall raises a disbelieving brow. “The paper? No, certainly that isn’t a crime. Neither is wanting to read several papers spanning over the past year from the Final Battle to the present. Surely any student, or person, is freely given the right to read any such material they would like. I only find it … strange that someone such as yourself hasn’t been kept up to date on the going ons in Wizarding society. Requiring access to the paper is quite simple, I should think. So you can understand why I find it quite odd to have a student make such a request, yes?”

I swallow thickly, shifting in my seat. A movement McGonagall’s cat-like eyes have surely caught. "I'm not sure if it's been brought to your attention that I've spent most of my summer at St. Mungo's?"

McGonagall purses her lips in thought. "There's a lot of students from Hogwarts who were seriously injured during the Final Battle. You'll have to excuse me that I don't recall the state of each."

"Of course," I accede, "I just meant, well, I never had time to catch up with the events that took place afterward while focusing on my ... recovery. When I was sent … _home_ … I, well, things were difficult there, too, and the paper wasn’t a priority considering the other going ons. If I raised any concern considering the tensions blossoming between students and within the Wizarding society, I do apologize. I was only hoping to learn what happened to the Dark Lord's followers since the battle as I haven’t had the time to catch up. As I’ve noticed since returning to school, I am quite behind in the … events that have occurred."

"I see," McGonagall muses, leaning back in her leather chair. "There are lists I'm sure you can acquire with the names of those who've been imprisoned or have received the kiss of death."

"With all due respect, Headmistress, a list isn't enough. You may not be aware of what happened to the Montgomery's?"

Shifting in her seat, McGonagall clears her throat. "I'm aware of—-yes, I'm aware. My apologies."

I nod my head in acknowledgment. "I just—-I would really like to know what happened to them for my own peace of mind. I realize now I've caused unnecessary panic and I do—"

"Don't worry about it, Penelope. I'll reach out to Madame Pince and let her know you have access to our archives. They will not be allowed to leave the room, though."

"I understand."

"Good. The other concern I have, as you may well know, is about the incident that took place yesterday morning that involves Pansy Parkinson. She claims there were too many students for her to see the person who used an unforgivable curse. While that statement rings true from what I witnessed with my own eyes, I sense there is more to what happened than what she's letting on. Something, I believe, that has to do with the way students of the Slytherin house are being treated."

"It would seem that way," I say slowly. "I was too far away to see who cast the curse. By the time I reached Parkinson, it was much too late."

McGonagall hums. "My intention in reopening Hogwarts was to create unity where there was conflict. I believed a year would give everyone time to...," she trails off, lost in thought. It's clear she was hoping the capture of the Death Eaters and thorough trials would bring a little peace back into people's lives and give them the chance to heal in other ways. Except, some scars run deep and can't be healed with potions or spells or even time.

"Parkinson mentioned that the Slytherin's return was something of a trial, heavily recommended by the Ministry, to ensure they're dark past is truly, uh, in the past."

"I see." McGonagall is stone-faced. Her tone is one of thoughtful contemplation but gives nothing away as to whether this is information I should be aware of. There isn't even an affirmation of truth behind Pansy's statement.

"Whether that's true or not is none of my business, but I think maybe the Ministry is onto something. Maybe for there to be peace or at least an understanding of what the Slytherins were a part of, there needs to be evidence that their past is no longer who they are."

"You have a proposal?"

"The papers don't print them in a very humane light, do they? And since the start of school, they've been fairly ... removed from everything and everyone, against their will I would think."

"What is it you are suggesting, Miss Montgomery?"

I can tell by her tone of voice that she already knows where I'm heading and is against the idea. "Have you ever considered abolishing the houses?"

"Absolutely not!" McGonagall looks shocked whereas I expected her to be furious and send me out of her office. "That would undo the very foundations this school is built on. Years of tradition that—"

"Are part of the problem," I interject. "How are we supposed to change our perceptions when previous prejudices still hold? Maybe something drastic needs to take place before there can be any change. Without the houses, no one can be defined by anything other than who they are."

McGonagall shakes her head slowly. "No, I cannot— _will not_ —allow it. Guardians are expecting this school to be a safe, secure place for their children. A place that offers a semblance of normality after everything these students have been through. To completely surrender ourselves to such a severe bout of change will have traumatic consequences for us all."

"Maybe that trauma is what's needed to heal."

"On this, I will not budge."

"What about the ability to change houses and give people a chance to—"

"The sorting hat is never wrong. Besides, the same issues will arise, perhaps even worsen, should a Slytherin move to another house and vice versa."

I hadn't thought of that. "Can't the history or meaning behind the houses even be chan—"

McGonagall sighs, a sound of defeat. Removing her glasses, she pinches the bridge of her nose and shuts her eyes. Without her glasses, she looks like a whole new person. A person who's been completely wrung out and left to dry. It mustn't be easy having the Ministry and the guardians of students breathing down her neck, all the while trying to protect her students and ease the tensions between houses. An impossible task, really. I feel bad pushing my ideas on her when it's clear she's thought of everything to make this transition into a peaceful new era as swift and painless as possible.

"As I said, the houses are an integral part of Hogwarts and what this school and its people stand for. While your efforts are admirable, there are some things that cannot be done. Believe me when I tell you I have exhausted every possibility and spoken at great lengths with many people in an attempt to unravel this problem and find a solution to it, but nothing worthy has come of it."

"Something has to be done. Otherwise, this behavior will only continue to—"

"Thank you, Miss Montgomery, I am well aware." When she opens her eyes, she slides her glasses back on and there's a note of finality to her tone. "With all due respect, I am the Headmistress and these are my decisions to make, whether or not they are agreed upon." She reaches for a slip of paper, no doubt scribbling an excuse to my first class teacher as to why I am late. "Something will change, I assure you. Off to class, now."

As she begins to turn away, I say: "It's not just changing the minds of other students, Headmistress. It's giving those who played ... a less than ideal role in the war and the events leading up to it a chance to prove they are worthy of forgiveness and acceptance ... of themselves."

She looks momentarily stunned and I wonder if she's about to hex me out of the room when she clears her throat, collecting herself. "That is the goal, Miss Montgomery. One goal out of many that are required to be met before peace can be achieved. I think it's best you head off to class now. If you do hear anything about yesterday's incident, come see me straight away."

"Of course," I say, accepting the slip she slides across her desk and into my hands. Then, I take my leave, cursing the resistance to change all the way to Professor Vector's classroom.


	5. Failed Bravery

"I heard you were called to McGonagall's office," Ezra whispers, fingers dodging the angry limbs of a Venomous Tentacula. "What's that all about?"

I glance over my shoulder. Everyone's busy trying not to get stung or bitten by their own plants to pay us much attention. Though, Professor Sprout does shoot me a suspicious glare. Turning around, I lean into Ezra as I wave my fingers above the twisting limbs, not really trying to distract the thing so much as making it look like I'm busy doing _something_ to have Sprout remove her daggers from my back.

"It's only second period," I whisper furiously, though my heart does this furious KA-BOOM in my chest. Panic explodes like adrenaline through my limbs when I realize enough attention has been drawn to me for my classmates to gossip. Anything to draw their attention from Slytherins or Death Eaters is a bad sign, made worse by everyone’s knowing about my visit to McGonagall’s office. Why else would anyone be going there unless it’s because their loyalty has been questioned? Which is _ridiculous_! The war is over. There shouldn't _be_ any sides, let alone opposing ones unless it comes to Quidditch or stupid house rivalry. A growl nearly tears loose from my throat when I think back to the conversation with McGonagall. The stubborn woman is only digging more graves with her refusal to—

"News travels fast. Everyone's paying more attention to one another than usual." Due to his overly thoughtful tone, I know he’s only trying to stop me from having a meltdown during class and inevitably draw more attention to myself. Though I have to admit he’s not wrong. Everyone might be acting friendly with one another, but McGonagall’s speech has set us on edge. It’s hard to trust one another when we’ve been betrayed by those we called friends once before. When I’ve remained silent for too long, Ezra prods me again.

"She's still looking for the person who used an unforgivable. I think she's frustrated at not being able to find them, and afraid of what that means."

Sighing, Ezra pulls his fingers back from the plant that bears its fangs at us. Instead, he twirls the plunger we're meant to use to extract venom for Snape's sixth-year class. "It's too soon after the war for any of us to make peace with the past."

"How much of it is their fault, though?" I wonder, just barely managing to pull my fingers back before getting stung. "Sometimes ... I think it's just the school, you know? Being back here ... it's too close."

Ezra watches my fingers hover around those angry limbs trying to defend themselves from my touch. "The school isn't the issue."

"It is though. All our old grudges, all of the history and bad blood, the crumbling walls and screams of the—"

The warmth from his hand seeps through my robes as it lands on my shoulder, cutting me off. "That existed long before this school did, Poppy. We're just ... we're struggling to make it work. Maybe we're falling back on old habits because that's what feels the most familiar in this situation, in returning to school as students when we fought in a battle. That bad blood, that's always going to exist. No matter who we forgive or what we learn to accept, there are some stains that cannot be washed out, even if we spend years scrubbing. That's the way life is."

"Miss Montgomery, Mr. Reignwood, this is Herbology class, not theater. Please keep your focus on avoiding strangulation by the Venomous Tentacula and leave your personal problems for a time that is best spent outside of the classroom.”

Ezra and I spring a part from one another though our necks are surely bright red. With everyone’s attention on their own plants, there aren’t as many snickers or side glances as there normally would be. Our attention returns to the hissing, fanged creature in front of us and the impossible task of extracting venom without the use of magic. The only way of doing it, really, is a simple stupify spell to stun it into immobility, or a severing spell to cut off its limbs which seems cruel, no matter how vicious the thing is.

My hands shake as I stubbornly clench them in the pockets of my robes. A look over my shoulder shows Sprout has moved to the other side of the room to help Plum and Rupert who are arguing madly with each other on how to go about distracting the plant to make their job easier, at least, for the one who doesn't have to put themselves in harm's way. She's standing right where Matthias and I were last night and I do everything I can to blot out those memories. Instead, I let myself relax now that Sprout's attention has been turned elsewhere.

I take a deep breath, about to pull out my wand when Ezra stops me. When I look up, he just shakes his head. Though his brows are crinkled in frustration, even he knows tempting Sprout when she's in a mood is not a good idea.

This whole assignment is bloody impossible, but I get it. There may be a time when we don't have wands when we're defenseless and need to know how to find other ways of protecting ourselves. Hence trying to extract poisonous venom from a Tentacula. Something I swear should be illegal but seems to be nothing but amusement for Sprout. Well, mostly. If her angry, scolding tones are any indication, she's pretty fed up with the lot of us. This makes me believe the solution to this is super easy, but even my intellect is no match for a furious, venom spitting, spore-firing plant.

Letting go of the grip on my wand, I glance up and meet the beady eyes of a Figglenut plant. They look vaguely elf-like with their droopy facial features and big ears but are tiny in size. Supposedly, they sprout these thin, vein-like limbs from their body that produce small almond-shaped seeds that are used to cure small ailments such as the common cold or a fever. Some wizards stick the leaves that bud from their head in their teas for extra flavor and nutrients. They're funny-looking plants, really. The kind students use to insult the way someone looks. Completely harmless and yet ... the way the sunlight slants through the Greenhouse's ceiling and reflects off the inky welldrops of their eyes is completely unsettling. It's just a dark, cool abyss that would almost be unseeing if it weren't for the curious way they stare back at me, sparking a memory I've buried somewhere deep in the confines of my memory.

It's torn loose from some grave I've buried it under, throwing it back in my mind's eye to envelop me in its stormy embrace. Voldemort's voice is back in my head, a violent whisper of wind streaming around my body, guiding me forward despite the roaring protest taking place in my head. My eyes flutter shut against the onslaught of emotions that flood my system and for a moment I believe I'm back there again, in that room, surrounded by Death Eaters as my eyes flit in a panic, desperately searching for an exit or a solution to the problem I've found myself in. Instead, I meet the featureless silver masks of the Dark Lord's trusted members, his spies, the ones who remain anonymous. His newest recruits are bare-faced and leering when they realize I'm weak, unable to do as the Dark Lord asks of me. They know I'm frightened and they're revolted by it.

The shaking in my legs has me clenching the edges of the metal table or risk collapsing entirely. It jolts me back into my mind but leaves me feeling sick and dizzy. Ezra doesn't seem to notice as he's busy flipping through the Herbology textbook to find a solution to our predicament, letting our previous conversation fizzle out in the name of survival.

I glance around the room for a distraction, afraid I really will vomit and anger the plant enough to risk getting strangled by it, a fate some of our classmates met until Sprout offered assistance. With a shock, I notice I share the same class as Pansy Parkinson. She's off to one side of the Greenhouse, working with Longbottom of all people. And they're getting along. They seem like the unlikeliest duo who would have to be bound together with a spell before even bothering to _look_ at one another, let alone _speak_.

Neville's patiently explaining how to withdraw the venom without risking injury. It's clear he knows exactly what he's talking about and maybe he does. Neville's always been knowledgeable about plants and regards them with a fondness most lack, especially for the particularly nasty ones. I wonder if that's why Parkinson has chosen him as a partner. After all, if she's to prove herself, grades are only a part of it. Showing she's changed and no longer holds the same dark notions as the group of people she once belonged to is her biggest challenge. Working with someone she's sworn to hate is a good way of ensuring everyone she's not the same Parkinson we once knew. Though it doesn't appear as though her cunning, Slytherin wit is at work. She's listening to Neville and watching as he demonstrates with a look of thoughtful contemplation. With her features open and unguarded, cheeks flushed with a healthy glow despite yesterday's incident, she looks like any young girl. She could almost _be_ any girl that isn't Pansy Parkinson, but she isn't.

A pinch to my side has me yelping before I turn to a smirking Ezra. "You won, by the way."

"Won what?" I ask cautiously.

"The bet. Damian got hit in the head with a bludger. Nearly took him off the broom it did. Was bloody brilliant to see."

"Was he mad?"

"He took it pretty well. They all did when they realized he was okay."

"Did he make the team?" I try to dampen the spark of hope, but it doesn't work. After the look on Damian's face this morning, I know this will be good for him. It might be the one thing to pull him out of the dark pit he's been in since the Final Battle. And he desperately needs that ray of light in his life, the thing he can look forward to despite all the bitter memories that keep popping up.

"Since when do they decide things on the first day of tryouts? I think they're starting earlier to let people blow off steam before taking it seriously. At least, that's what I got from this morning when I watched them play. Just a casual game of Quidditch. You should've seen Damian's face, though."

"When he got hit?"

Ezra shakes his head, staring at the needle in his hands without seeing it, lost in his memories. "At first—and it wasn't just him, you know, but all of them—they just got this look in their eyes. This fierce determination to win. You could see they were strategizing—no, not just strategizing but determining the other's strengths and weaknesses. It was like the war all over again. But then they got into it, you know? And they were really making a game of it and having fun. It's the first time I've seen Damian laugh, really laugh, since—"

"Ach!" I nearly topple over at the force of being smacked in the head by a stray limb. If the plant could cackle I swear it would. Ezra grabs my arm before I can go sprawling across the floor. A wide grin breaks free on his face. I swat at him, cheeks burning. "I'm good. I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

He snickers. "Too bad we didn't bet on both of you getting your heads bashed."

I glare, though it only seems to amuse him more. "Whatever. If I had known this was what we'd be working on today, I might've bet more money."

"How are things over here?" says Professor Sprout, nearly scaring the wits right out of me when she appears at my side. She has a look on her face most teachers get when they know more talking than work is being done.

"Well," I huff, "I've nearly had my head removed _twice_ and barely managed not being poisoned _at least_ a hundred. What's the point of using no magic on a plant that _requires_ magic to remove its venom?" If my tone is snarky, I can only hope Sprout catches on.

Sprout looks less than pleased as she narrows her eyes on us. "You're only lucky it hasn't decided to fire any spore-balls in retaliation for taunting it, Miss Montgomery. The purpose of this assignment is to work _with_ the subject using no magic to succeed in your task. Ravenclaws are known for their wit, yes? Why don't you put it to use and impress me without getting sent to Pomfrey or joining Headless Nick in his useless tirades as a ghost." With a huff, Sprout moves off to another group of pair, leaving me and Ezra completely confounded.

"There's nothing in the textbook," Ezra admits quietly, flipping it closed as we regard the plant with a mix of confusion and disdain.

We glance at one another. "Who's taking one for the team?"

Ezra pales.

***

"So much for the Ravenclaw wit," I mutter, swallowing the nasty potion Pomfrey hands me and trying not to spew it across my bedsheets. "When can I leave, again?"

"A few hours," Pomfrey replies, writing something on the chart attached to her clipboard. "A bit of rest ought to do it. If the potion kicks in soon enough, you should be able to make it to dinner. Until then, hang tight." She sweeps out of the room, swinging the curtains shut behind her.

"The two of you are appallingly idiotic, you know that?" Elenora hisses, smacking Ezra upside the head and officially wiping the smirk off his face.

"You can thank Poppy for her brilliant idea, Elle. If she wasn't so brazenly stupid—"

"Hey, that's _almost_ a compliment," I protest.

"—and hadn't wrangled with a tree limb, she wouldn't have gotten bitten or juiced."

Elenora rolls her eyes. "You really ought to be lucky to have survived that, you know? If it had stung you instead you'd be dead."

It's my turn to roll my eyes. "Yes, because being stunned is _so much_ better. You know I had to listen to the class make fun of me a full ten minutes before Sprout allowed me to be carried off to Pomfrey?"

"You know you deserved it." Though her tone is gruff, she's as amused by all this as Ezra. Okay, so maybe she's a _little_ peeved at my lack of intellect and tarnishing the Ravenclaw name, but seriously, I would've _loved_ to have seen her do better. "I mean, trying to wrestle with a Venomous Tentacula _of all things_. What were you thinking?"

"I'd successfully distract the thing long enough for Ezra to extract its venom. Then I thought the class would cheer me on and Sprout would eat her words."

"Well she got the best of you, didn't she?"

"Only because she's got unresolved issues she's taking out on the class with violence and potential murder," I grumble sullenly.

Ezra snorts. "If only Damian were here to see this."

"It's not that bad!" I protest. Well, it is but that's beside the point. Pomfrey promised the swelling in my face and body will reduce significantly by dinner, though something in her voice suggests that may not be the entire truth. Who knew being bit and allergic to Tentaculas could be so thrilling?

"Where is he, anyway?" Elenora wonders. "Surely he's not so obsessed with food he can't visit his friend in the hospital." Ezra shifts in his seat and Elenora eyes him suspiciously. "Out with it."

"He ... might've snuck off to Hogsmeade."

Elenora's eyes widen significantly while I can't help but feel some satisfaction that I'm not the only stupid one in this friend group. "And you let him go?" She hits him hard in the arm with her hand, a look of utter fury on her face. "How are you both so unbelievably stupid?" Each word is emphasized by a swat on the arm that Ezra tries, and fails, to dodge.

"He'll be back after lunch, none the wiser. Stop hitting me!"

Huffing, Elenora throws herself back in her seat, glaring daggers at the two of us like she doesn't know who to be more upset with. "Damn it, both of you! Why am I the only one not lacking any brains? He's going to get in so much trouble."

"Who knows, maybe he's using all his wit to get away with this incredibly stupid idea," I joke, earning a small smile from Ezra.

This doesn't amuse Elenora who turns on Ezra. "What is so incredibly important to make him do something so amazingly stupid?"

"....he might be going out for a booze run."

I stiffen, realizing maybe I should be just as angry as Elenora. "And in light of everything that seemed like a good idea to you?"

This drains any ounce of lightheartedness from Ezra's eyes. "It's not like that and you know it. Just because his father's a drunk doesn't automatically make him one."

"No, just increases the likelihood of him _becoming_ one. What does he need booze for in the first place?"

"To celebrate. He's pretty sure he's got a good chance at making the team. They find out next week and if he's in ... well, he wants to celebrate with his friends. Is that really so bad?"

Elenora and I share a look. No, it's not a bad idea at all. Considering everything he's been through, he needs a few reasons to relax and have fun. Who were we to deny him that? Sighing, Elenora drops the subject. "We should let you get some sleep. If you don't make it to dinner, I'll bring some food back to our dorms. And if you don't see me, it's because Damian got caught and I've been sent to Azkaban for killing him."

Yawning, I wave her off. "Always so dramatic."

"Feel better, Pops." Ezra delicately squeezes my hand before rising to his feet and following Elenora out of the room. Seconds later, the curtains shut and I'm drifting off to sleep.

_***_

_My feet get tangled in my robes as I follow the lineup of Death Eaters down the narrow, cobblestoned streets of Diagon Alley. We're moving at a brisk pace down the empty alleys, staying away from the main roads and the neon lights spilling out of lit-up shops. At three-thirty in the morning, none of them are open and most who haunt the streets are inebriated from too many drinks at the Leaky Cauldron. Luckily, they are few and far in between and fail to notice the flickering shadows moving past them._

_The rain pounds from murky clouds, dampening the wool of our robes and upturned hoods. Rain still finds its way in. The coolness of it trickles down my neck and gathers like dewdrops on my hair. Already my hands are frozen stiff, shoved into the pockets of my robes with one hand clenching my wand. We stop abruptly and I bump into the back of the Death Eater in front of me. They growl with their head turned slightly. A glimpse of white-blonde hair. Draco._

_"Sorry," I murmur quietly._

_His fingers pinch my thigh._ Quiet.

_Rolling my eyes, I shuffle closer for warmth and to peer over his shoulder. We're so far back in the line, all I see are a few Death Eaters huddled to the stone wall on our right and then darkness. We've surpassed most of the shops and have found ourselves on the outskirts of Diagon Alley where no light can reach us. Surely we have to be close by now? My hands shake with anticipation. Out of fear of what's to come, the waiting, or the desire for this to be over and return to the safety of my bed, I have no idea. But it beats inside me like a wild, desperate thing yearning to be set loose. It's all I can do to hold still so I don't race off into the darkness myself._

_Two beats tap out against my thigh._ Okay?

 _Three beats on his back._ Just merry.

_It's hard to hear over the rain, but I swear I hear him snicker in response. Then we're darting ahead into the darkness, using the person in front of us for guidance. Our footsteps blend in with the frantic thrum of rain beating against the rock, masking us from ears while the night casts us in shadows. It's the perfect time for hunting._

_Glass shatters as a series of stones are thrown into shop windows and wood splinters under spells that send doors flying open. Cheers ring through the air as Death Eaters storm into buildings. It won't be long till the Ministry's alerted and the Aurors arrive. We will have to move quickly. Someone sends the Dark Mark into the sky where it sears itself into wisps of fast-moving clouds. A skull forms first, white and glowing as its sinister stare locks onto the helpless village below. As the mouth yawns open, a snake writhes out like a deformed tongue where it bares its fangs menacingly upon any who dares look upon it._

_When I emerge from the alley, four shops are in complete ruins as cloaked figures stomp through its innards, tossing and disposing of items and only pocketing a few. Shards of glass have spilled out onto the street where they mix with the glossy surface of wet stones. Lit-up wands reflect off both, creating a dizzying array of diamond-filled light._

_Malfoy ducks through the broken remains of a door, following three others. His wand is lit and held steady in his gloved hand as he moves further into the store before disappearing altogether. The shop beside it is mine to destroy. It feels too easy casting the spells that tear down its front and leave it gaping and helpless against our advance._

_A shoulder bumps into mine when I hesitate to walk inside. "We're moving on little time," the throaty voice hisses into the shell of my ear. "Get_ going _."_

_They move off before I can put a name to a face. Chances are, I've never met them before this night. The Dark Lord's army is bigger than it was before. There are simply too many pawns to keep track of. Destruction and laughter ring through the once-quiet streets. I feel lost among the chaos, entirely unsure of my role in it._

_A hand on my back shoves me forward, forcing me to step through the doorway and into what looks like a Potions shop. "This is why the Dark Lord shouldn't recruit_ children _," says a sneering voice._

 _My hands shake as I cast a_ Lumos _spell. A glowing ball of light blooms at my wand's tip and creates a bubble of light through the dark. There's a Death Eater behind the till who is pocketing coins and leers at me as I wander past. Two others roam the store and swipe vials when they come across something worthwhile. At the back of the store, there's a wooden staircase leading to a second floor above the shop. The steps creak loudly beneath my boots, no doubt giving me away. With the racket taking place, it's possible all the noise blends together in one incomprehensible cacophony. Another kind of invisibility. One I don't want._

_Most shops in the area have upper floors, some of which are shops and others that have been turned into apartments. Sometimes the shopkeepers will live above for convenience, while others rent them out to families to help pay for rent. Merlin knows what's beyond the door at the top of the stairs. Could be shop supplies or it could be an apartment. If it's the latter, I can only hope they aren't home to bear witness to the storm brewing below._

_Bile burns the back of my throat. What if I'm wrong and there are people beyond this door? Is my life more worthy than theirs?_

_"_ Alohomora."

_On squealing hinges, the door swings open to reveal a tiny worn-down apartment. To my right, five hooks are nailed into the wall with jackets, hats, and scarves hanging from each. One is a heavy winter coat that clearly belongs to an older gentleman while the one next to it is a feminine coat lined with pink fur. Three small jackets hang from the other hooks, clearly made for young children. Against the wall are pairs of worn, fraying shoes to match with the jackets hanging above them. Children._

_As I move through the kitchen, I notice it's completely spotless. Dinner's been cleared from the dining table and there are no dishes left to clean or dry in the sink. No stains have been left on the counter to give a clue as to what they had eaten. Everything has been put away and wiped down. Cleaned. My fingers trail over the bumps and grooves embedded in the dark oak wood of the circular table. Marks made from years of eating or maybe doing homework on its surface. Maybe it's a hand-me-down from grandparents or a garage sale and the scratches and dents have only been added as the years wear on._

_A wool blanket has been slung on the back of a couch in the living room. The edges are frayed and my fingers get caught in a few small holes that declare it's been used to keep the family warm many times. Stuffing erupts from one of the cushions and broken thread lines the hole to suggest attempts have been made to contain it. Under the coffee table is a ruby red rug, soft as velvet beneath the tips of my fingers and I wonder if the kids draw patterns through it with their own hands. It's only when I stand up that it hits me:_ this is home.

_A family sits and eats together around the table and asks about one another's day. They sit on the couch often and laugh and play games. Every day they hang their coats and scarves on the hooks and line their shoes up against the wall before coming home to a warm meal and each other's company. Out of this tiny apartment, they have made a home. One we are invading._

_Have they planned for a home invasion or did they always believe home was the safest place? I wonder if they knew one day Death Eaters might storm into their home, their privacy, their bubble of happiness set aside just for themselves and that it would be torn it from their grip. Have they considered the possibility that Harry Potter may not be able to save us all and that the Dark Lord might win? That someone will inevitably come for them? I hope they've planned for a world in which they may not make it. If there's a plan, then there's a good chance the noise has scared them off and I'm wandering through the empty remains of a past life, a life of what could've been if they didn't need to run from the dark and keep running because hiding still isn't enough. No one and nothing can hide from the dark when it consumes everything in its path._

What if they're still here?

_My hand finds the blanket again, searching out the individual threads as though each one holds a memory of when it's been worn. In my mind's eye, I see a man and woman sitting on this couch, wrapped in one another's embrace with the blanket draped over their shoulders. I see a child fallen asleep across the cushions, the fabric pulled tight to their face as they dream. It's not big enough to reach across the entire family, but I picture it anyway, the five of them huddled together under a safety net with smiles on their faces and laughter ready to spring from the tips of their tongues._

_A sneeze interrupts the picture-perfect family I've created. It fades like a ripple in the water as anticipation floods through the apartment, its scent thick and oily as though it were made of quicksand. For a moment, I debate on pretending I've heard nothing. It was so faint and minuscule, a complete chance the noise downstairs quieted enough for me to hear it. No one has to know I heard anything. I can say it's empty. The owners fled when the first store was invaded or they simply haven't been here for days. But they'll see the shoes and jackets, a young inexperienced Death Eater, and they'll do what I'm too much of a coward to do._

Good. Let it soil someone else's conscience. So long as it's not mine. But what if there's a chance I can save them?

_Judging by the shattering of glass and objects being thrown and dumped onto the ground, the Death Eaters below are still busy. I can easily sneak upstairs, warn the family away, and none would be the wiser. And though it may mean my death should I be caught, I know it's worth it._

_Numerous curses ramp up a storm as I cross the room to where a staircase is hidden next to the kitchen. Along the stairs are portraits, all of them are empty. Its inhabitants have hidden._

_I storm up the stairs and take a right at the landing. Six more steps and I find myself standing at the beginning of a short hallway. Three doors are located on the left with one right at the end of the hall. Each one is closed. A quick spell fixes that problem. The first room is a small bathroom. Rubber ducks and toys line the edges of a tub and a small stool has been placed in front of the sink for little ones to reach the taps. An assortment of toothbrushes stands upright along the bottom edge of a mirror that shines the light of my wand back into my eyes. Bedrooms take up the next two rooms. One contains a bunk bed and twin dressers with a miniature desk and chair. Stuffed animals litter the floor and beds. There's a rabbit with a missing ear and a polar bear with faded patches, both clearly well-loved. Dragons and hippogriffs and mer-creatures add to the collection of well-loved toys judging by their beat-up appearances. A single bed and simple desk and chair suggest one child is a bit older than the rest, needing their own space and a place to do their work. As far as decoration goes, the walls are left plain and bare. No animals or toys to be seen, only a pile of textbooks set neatly on the floor by the desk and a built-in closet to hold clothes._

_I shut the doors softly behind me and suddenly, I'm faced with one last door._

_My hand shakes as I guide my wand closer. They're going to attack. It's like I can feel them coiled like a spring, ready for the moment the door opens. Ready to kill me. Anything to protect their kids. I'll be forced to fight back—subdue them—before the others get the chance to do worse. And if they're caught unprepared—however unlikely that is—I'll be given the chance to let them apparate elsewhere. Either way, the odds aren't in my favor._

_"Alo—"_

_Footsteps clomp up the stairs in a hurry. Whirling around, my heart jumps into my throat as three Death Eaters appear at the top of the stairs, barrelling down the hallway toward me. Air vanishes from my lungs as they brush past me. All except for one. They grab my arm in a bruising grip and I’m shoved backward. My bones grind painfully into the wooden wall as I come face to face with a silver mask._

_"Why didn't you call for us?" he hisses. "Wanted to impress the Dark Lord by yourself, hmm?"_

_Before I can answer, the door bangs open. Startled screams erupt through the air. Spells light up the darkened air as they're cast from wizard to wizard. Objects stream past and crash into walls and the floor or explode to pieces when hit with a spell but they rarely meet their mark. Yelling fills the air. Over it all, a woman pleas with the dark wizards to stop, to leave them alone, to not—_

_Young children cry out in fear, followed by a man roaring. Something else breaks and its pieces scatter along the floorboards. The wizard releases me and draws their wand to join the fight. I remain against the wall, my wand dangling uselessly in my hand as the screaming continues. There's a loud thud that shakes the ground beneath my feet and a tortured, angry cry. When I'm able to peel myself from the wall and step inside the room, it's all over._

_Drawing the hood tighter to my face, I glance around the room but hardly take anything in. Nothing is nearly as important as the large man in sleepwear lying face-down on the hardwood floor or the young woman with rumpled blonde hair clutching three young children to her body. A young boy and girl, twins, their heads buried in her chest. Their trembling is obvious, even in the dark. Despite the horror unfolding before them, they remain quiet. Maybe they have prepared for this possibility, just not in a way that matters._

_To the side, a young boy of eleven gazes steely at the intruders in the room. Rather than cower before the Death Eaters in the room, he gazes at each one individually like he's asking them to own up to their actions. Little does he know that they already have and they don't care. They have done this hundreds of times for their own pleasure. This family might become new toys for the Dark Lord, but feeding off their fear is purely a bonus for the men in this room._

_When the boy's metallic grey eyes meet my own, I'm forced to look away. I can't bear to see the life, the future, the years ahead of him that will be robbed because of me. Shutting the doors were meant to hinder the Death Eaters, to give me more time in helping this family escape. My hesitation cost them their lives. This is my fault._

_My breath is shaky when I inhale, but it gives me the strength to look up and meet the boy's eyes. If he's surprised to see my face, to see a young woman staring back at him, it doesn't show. Only his hate, his anger, the refusal to let us terrify him. Though I don't want to, I flick my eyes over to his mother and force myself to watch what comes next. If I can do anything, it's sear this scene into my mind so that next time, I'll remember the price of true weakness._

_Tears trail down the woman's cheeks as she trembles openly before us. Her mouth is partially open, wanting to say something but not having the strength. All of it goes to her three children, especially the young two, and making sure their heads are turned from the unmoving figure beside them. There's no doubt in my mind she knows what's coming next, what she can't save them from. Even still, a mother's instinct to protect her young is strong and refuses to break under the pressure of bloodthirsty Death Eaters._

_"What are your names?" a deep, impatient voice demands. The one which told me we're running on little time. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Snr. Malfoy. Whether my guess is accurate, I'll never know. Perhaps it's for the best._

_The woman continues to cry over the heads of her twins. It's clear she won't answer, purely out of fear than rebellion. Surprisingly, it's the boy who answers. "We're purebloods."_

_One of the other Death Eaters laughs. "Purebloods in a filthy rat-infested home above a_ store. _Would you like to try again, young boy? Perhaps this time you can come up with an answer we'll half-believe." He chuckles at his own joke, but the rest of don't join in. Instead, I press further into the wall in the hopes I'll disappear._

_"What does it matter?" the boy hisses. "You've convinced yourselves of our worth already. What does it matter to have our names?"_

_"Matthew," the mother whimpers. "Stop it. Stop speaking."_

_He whirls on her, eyes flashing with a fire so bright it nearly scalds the frozen flesh of my body. The only fire that's ever shined that bright was in Harry Potter when he stated the Dark Lord's return with such absolute conviction that it was a clearly aimed challenge at the Ministry. A dare to refuse his claim. I wonder if his life will make a difference in the war. If he lives, will he play an important role that will ultimately bring about the demise of our leader? Suddenly. it seems so plausible I'm ready to spring across the distance and apparate elsewhere with him in my arms. I'll find a way to bring him to Harry Potter. I'll speak of that fire and how it will consume all the bad in the world so long as he fights alongside him._

_But I'll be dead before I'm halfway across the room._

Coward. 

_I flinch as though the boy himself directed the words at me._

_The first Death Eater cocks his head to the side in a curious matter that causes nausea to swirl violently in the pit of my stomach. "That must be the first correct thing you've said all night. It_ doesn't _matter what your name is but the Dark Lord will want to know and he has ... less than considerate ways of finding out. Foolish me to offer a lending hand to_ halfbreeds." 

_The word has an immediate effect on the boy who reaches for his wand. It's immediately drawn away from him and into the hands of the Death Eater next to me. Fuming, the boy turns to the only man who's shown him some acknowledgment. "Buttleburns."_

_My cheeks burn as the room errupts with laughter. It frightens the woman and younger children who curl even further within themselves as though it will cast a reflective shield for their offensive chuckles to rebound off of. Once again, the elder boy stuns me with his resilience and the way he not-so-subtly lifts his chin further. "I'm not afraid of you lot. You're a bunch of good-for-nothing bullies. The only shame is the Dark Lord will kill me before I see you all rot. That you will when Harry Potter kills you-"_

_"Enough of this!" The Death Eater next to me sneers. "We have what we came for. Let's_ leave." _He storms forward, grabbing the boy who tries to wrestled out of the bruising grip on his arms. Without his wand, he stands no chance against the older man who has size and weight over the slim boy._

_"Please," the woman begs, trying to speak through heaving sobs as her grip tightens on her children. Even when there's no hope she's still trying to protect them. "Please don't hurt—"_

_"Shut up," a man growls before turning to me. "Mark the building. We'll apparate them back." He stalks forward, the other two eagerly stepping up to the task. Anything to please The Dark Lord. With his last few toys dead or broken, there's no doubt he'll be happy. It doesn't escape me how they step around the man and head directly for the woman and her children. Tears burn my eyes as I turn away from their screams. Tortured and full of fear. The woman begging, grappling to find an ounce of sympathy for her children before they're whisked away with a loud crack._

_My cries break the sudden silence, howling loose as I mourn for a family whose lives will be taken before the end of the week. If they don't find a way to kill themselves._

_I tumble down the stairs. After the last step, I crash to my knees with a loud thud. The sudden movement jolts through my body with enough strength for my stomach to heave its contents onto the floor. Over and over again I heave until my gagging turns to sobs. Five lives on my conscience. Five more people I can't save. All my fault. When my crying starves off, I'm left shaking and ill. Outside, a shout reminds me of where I am and what's going on. Clambering to my feet, I head towards the exit, legs unsteady and my mind in a fog. I'm halfway there when Draco appears. He's pale and shaky, completely breathless._

_"Aurors! We have to go—"_

_Behind me, the wall is blown to bits with a quaking boom that rattles my skull and sends me flying across the room and into—_

I wake to my own screaming and Pomfrey trying to shove a potion down my throat. Somehow, she manages to slide the liquid down my throat without choking me. Her shushing subsides as I slowly drift off into a dreamless sleep.


End file.
